There is a glacier.Its blue tongue’s tip just tastes a frozen gorge.There is a gorge, its walls shattered by cold; a once-green thing that, in dying, birthed a thousand aching fissures. It works its jagged way downhill, round ragged rifts and drifts until it comes upon a little frosted wood.There is a wood, an island locked in ice.Within this wood the gorge descends. It wanders and it wends; it brakes and all but ends outside a clearing wet with sun. And there, forking, its bent and broken arms embrace a strange, enchanted glade.

There is a glade.And in this glade the black bears sleep, though salmon leap fat between falls. Here the field mouse draws no shadow, the eagle seeks no prey; they spend their while caressed by rays, and halcyon days are they. Here rabbit and fawn may linger, no longer need they flee. For in this timeless, taintless space, the Wild has ceased to be. (Outside the glade are shadow and prey, are ice and naked death. There blood may run freely. There the eagle, that thief, is a righteous savage, a noble fiend. But once in the glade he is dove, and has no taste for blood, running freely or otherwise).And in this glade there nests a pool: a dazzling, blue-and-silver jewel; profoundly deep, pristinely clear. All who sip find solace here, for this is the Eye of Being. They lap in peace, assuming blear, not knowing it is seeing. And ever thus this pool shall peer: a silent seer, reflecting on—all that Is, and all Beyond.(Outside the glade there lies a world where rivers ever run, where ghastly calves in random file revile a bitter sun. East, the day is born in mist. West she dies: her rest, the deep. And North…North the Earth lies mute. Wind gnaws her hide, wind wracks her dreams. Wind screams like a flute in her white, white sleep).But in the glade are tall, stately grasses, sunning raptly, spinning lore. Roots render the rhythms, blades bend without breeze, as signals ascend from the glade’s tender floor. (In this wise the glade weaves its word, airs its views. All the glade’s flora are bearers of news). They do not wither with fall, for in the glade there is no fall. They do not bind or wilt or brown—they gesture, spreading the mood, the mind; conveying, indeed, the very soul of the glade. As ever they have, as they shall evermore.Bees do not hum here; they sing. They fatten the dream. Mellow and round are the timbres they sound, sweet is the music they bring. Birds do not sing here—they play. They carry the theme. Dulcet and warm are the strains they perform. Gifted musicians are they. (All in the glade are virtuosi. They were born to create. Melody, harmony, meter…are innate). Now the performance is lively and bright, now full, now almost still. For, though all in the glade may lean to the light, they must bend to the maestro’s feel.And yet…there was a day, long ago in a dream, when this ongoing opus was torn. And on that day (so the lullaby goes) the wind brought a scream, and Dissonance was born.There was a noise.Moose tensed, their coffee eyes narrowed, their patient brows creased. Bees mauled the tempo, birds lost their place. The grass stood *****, all blades pointing east. There was a crash, and a shriek, and a naked, bleeding beast burst stinking through the fern, fell stumbling on its face.Moose scattered: unheard of. Sheep brawled, geese burst out of rhyme. The symphony, forever endeavored to soar sublime, fluttered, plunged, and, for all of a measure, ceased.The pool was appalled…what manner brute—what kind of monster was this? Furless flank to forelimb, hide obscured by blood. As for its face…it had no face; only a look: of shock frozen in time, of horror in amber. A deep welling rift ran temple to chin, halving the mask, caving it in. Such a grievous wound…the pool watched it stagger, on two legs and four, thrashing about till it came to a rise. There it labored for air, wiped the blood from its eyes, lashed at illusion, looked wildly round. Beholding the pool, the beast tumbled down.And there this wretch plunged his thirst, drank his fill, fell back on his haunches.The pool became still.The two traded stares.The glass read his features: that durable eye pondered the wreckage and probed the debris. Revolted, the pool sought the succor of sky. But that thing remained—that face…in all creation…surely there could be…no other creature so ugly as he.And he gazed in the glass.Beneath the surface were…images…swimming in currents of shadow and light. He saw half-shapes and fragments…hideous men, exotic beasts…saw blue worlds of water, saw white worlds of ice…it was all so vague and unreal—yet somehow strangely familiar. Deeper he peered, but, as his mangled face neared, the sun smote the pool and the shapes disappeared. The brute pawed the ground and, dreaming he’d drowned, shook his head sharply and slowly looked round:There were starlings at arm’s-length, transfixed with suspense, their tail feathers trembling, their dark eyes intense. Fantails and timber wolves, stepping in sync, paused for a sniff, stooped for a drink. Bees, pirouetting, threw light in his eyes. Seizing the moment, the pool pressed its hold.And the glade revolved.The freak watched it spin—saw the ferns’ greedy fingers reach round and close in, saw the tall grass rise high in an emerald sheen, swaying to rhythms from somewhere obscene. This place was madness; he struggled to stand, but, weak as he was, keeled over cold.And the glade heaved a sigh, and the tall grass reclined, in curious patterns once rendered in whim. Far off in thunder the hard world replied, as iced pines exploded and screamed on the breeze. Down bore the sun, a chill just behind. The pool, grown blood-red, fended frost from its rim. Details dissolved in the oncoming tide. The pool dimmed to black. Night seeped through the trees.Now flora found slumber while, pulsing below, the pool was infused with a soft ruby glow.Soon birds bearing beech leaves, and needles of pine, laid down a spread and returned to the limb. But breath from the North blew their blanket aside. The wind grew in earnest, the air seemed to freeze.And the wolf and the she-bear, of contrary mind, abhorring their task approached, looking grim. They sniffed him for measure, then, loathing his hide, growled their displeasure and dropped to their knees.All night these glum attendants flanked his naked quaking form. The rising moon drew dreams in gray.In time the man grew warm.

Morning swept through the glade in one broad stroke of the master’s brush, dappling the foliage with amber and rose. The pool was roused by the sweet pass of light. He opened his eye and the glade came alive: into the whirlpool of life a thousand colors swam, chasing the scattering eddies of night. The magic of morning began.Bluebird and goldfinch descended in rings, primaries clashing with robin and jay. Dollops of sun, repelled by their wings, spattered anew on the palette of day. Banking as one, the hues struck away.There was a crowd.And in this crowd that oddity sat, its chin on its chest, its rear pointing west. Its forepaws lay leaning, upturned and at rest. ***** and blood messed its muzzle and breast. Passed overnight. Or perhaps only dozed…tendril by tendril, claw by claw, the crowd decompressed: the ring slowly closed.And the stranger cried out and shifted his seat. His eyes sought his feet—rounding the arches, and topping the toes, the tall grass was questing. The little brute froze.And the fauna took pause, and the flora went slack. Leaves followed talons, stems followed claws. Hooves tromped on paws as the crowd drifted back.Not a breath taken. Not a move made. Stillness, like fog, enveloped the glade.Now the grass tugged his feet, now the sea of jade splayed—left hand and right, the slender shafts reared. Gaining momentum, blade followed blade. The green field was torn till a deep swath appeared. The swath hurtled west, reflecting the sun. A hundred yards distant it died. Once more the grass stood, its tips spreading wide. The swath, born again, repeated its run.Plain was the message, and clearly conveyed. The newcomer gawked. Confusion ensued.The tall blades were swayed by the pulse of the glade.But the swath was not renewed.Something tiny bounced by. He ventured a peek, barely rolling an eye.A chocolate sparrow, with pinfeathers black, popped past an ankle and paused to look back. The bird cocked its head, rocked in place, hopped ahead. It fluttered. It freaked. It glared and stopped dead. Vexed to its limit, it burst into flight.The sitting thing watched till it passed out of sight.Now a breeze bent his back, picked him half off his stern. The wind, done its best, grew flustered at last. It trailed to the west, thrilling lilies it passed. It wound round the willows and didn’t return.So the fauna repaired to the live oak’s shade.A strange kind of stupor fell over the glade.From deep in the wood came a shape through the trees—a pronghorn, perhaps, or an elk swift and sure. But up limped a moose, a flyport with fur, low in the belly and wide at the knees. Wizened he was, scarcely able to see. Neither vision, nor vigor, nor velvet had he. He hobbled abreast, then groveled or died, his nose facing west, his tail flung aside.The brute merely glazed.But the glade was unfazed.Those long shafts reshuffled. A tense moment passed.The ominous shadows of badgers were cast. Three left their holes, as if to attack. They pedaled like moles and the stranger jumped back. He stumbled, fell flailing, and, kicking his guide, threw out his arms and tumbled astride. First he stepped on his tail, then he stepped on his pride. The moose bellowed twice and shook side to side while the little pest clung to his high, homely hide.And the old moose unbent to his knees by degrees. He reeled like a drunk down the path of the breeze. Together they lurched through a break in the trees. And all morning long, and on through the day, both beggar and bearer would buckle and sway. The moose lost his temper, but never his way.And the wind blew the sun to its deep ruby rest; the scrub, in obeisance, inclined to the west. Their slow taffy shadow in slinking would seem to slip round the rocks like a snake in a dream.And the sun became a beacon, and the underbrush a stream. The wide Earth took their weight in stride, and the wind named him Hero.

WORLD

When the sun was low the old moose began to stumble, at last limping to a halt beside a swift river lined with stunted pines. He’d half-expected a somewhat graceful dismount, but Hero, dug in like a tick, wasn’t about to let go. The moose knelt until his joints objected, shimmied, bucked, and with a sudden whirl sent the little bother flying.Hero scraped himself out of the dirt and looked up forlornly. The ancient moose, his good eye gone bad, glared a long minute before hobbling away, his bony **** rocking with dignity, his scraggly tail fighting off imaginary flies.Hero managed a few steps and dropped, staring in disbelief as the moose disappeared between half-frozen pines. He remained on his knees for the longest time, his jaw hanging, waiting for the moose—waiting for anything to show. At last a ruckus to his left snapped him out of it. His head ratcheted around.Fifteen feet off the bank, three screaming gulls were dancing on an immense stone outcropping, fighting over a rapids-tossed sockeye. Hero was instantly famished. He wobbled to his feet and stumbled twice wading out, only regaining his balance by leaning against the current while rapidly wheeling his arms. The shrieking gulls reluctantly backed off as he stepped in slow-motion through the rushing water. Hero lunged at the slapping fish, cracked an ankle on the rock, and hopped around howling with both hands holding his shin. One foot was as good as none in the surging water. He went right under. Before he knew it he was being swept downriver.This was glacial meltwater, so cold he quickly lost all sensation. Hero swallowed a mouthful and surfaced fighting for life; too disoriented to combat the current, too numb to realize his waving arm was striking something solid. That solid something turned out to be a swirling clump of rotted birches tangled up in scrub. He embraced one of these trunks as the mass slammed against isolated rocks, kicked his feet wildly, and somehow hauled himself aboard. The raft ricocheted rock to rock until repeated impacts sent it spinning. Giddy from the whirling and soaking, he clung freezing to the trees, retching continuously while the river roared in his ears. Through spray and tears he made out only cartwheeling fragments of the world.But then the river was widening, its fury dissipating. The raft was approaching the sea. Hero gasped as the seemingly boundless Pacific swallowed the broad red belly of the sun. And as he spun he was treated to a panoramic, breathtaking spectacle: the great indigo ocean with its slow traffic of driftwood and ice—voiced-over by the dismal calls of foraging gulls, and broken rhythmically by intermittent glimpses of the river’s rocky banks growing farther and farther apart. Whirling as it went, the dying man’s soul was taken by the sea.

At the 59th Parallel in winter, the Pacific coast plays host to numberless floes and minor bergs orphaned from Alaskan coastal glaciers. Hero cruised into a watery gridlock on a boat of ice-glazed birches, one bit of flotsam among the rest.The cold wouldn’t let him move, wouldn’t let him breathe, wouldn’t let him think. He lay supine, feet crossed and hands clasped, terrified that to budge was to roll. An ice patina grew over the tangled trees like a white fungus—this growth soon webbed his fingers and toes, speckled his chest and thighs, glazed his hair and face, danced and disintegrated with his breath’s tapering plumes.Floes and frozen-over debris tended to group with passing collisions; Hero’s married birches bit by bit accrued a mostly-submerged tangle of trunks and branches, all becoming fast in a creeping ice cement. Night came on just as resolutely, until land was only a flat black memory. The raft moved silently over the deep, still accepting the occasional gentle impact. And the floes became thicker and wider in a freezing doldrums; soon the proximate sea was all a broken field of packed ice, bobbing infinitesimally with the planet’s pulse.Long ghostly strands of fog came striding over the torn ice field. They leaned this way and that, their mourners’ skirts tearing and patching and leaning anew. The ghosts were there to seal it: their locked fingers and gray diaphanous wings were quickly becoming a wholly opaque descending shroud, its boundaries lost in the soughing wind.Collisions came less and less. Darkness and silence, breaching some previously impenetrable barrier, began to take up residence in Hero’s chilling marrow. From his very center broke a weak little cry of refusal, of denial, as mind mustered frame in one desperate bid for freedom. His skin, frozen to the raft, peeled right off, and at that his inner brave succumbed. Hero’s smashed head arched back. His face contorted frightfully while the little lamp fluttered and paled within.A raucous chorus slowly worked its way through the mist. It emerged a few hundred yards off—a tiny, terrified barking, growing in clarity as it grew in volume and urgency. It was a sound beacon. Hero strained eagerly, and when for one excruciating minute the beacon was cut off by a large passing body, was certain death had claimed him. Then it was back, and his heartbeat was quickening. He caught a heaving sound…something was moving his way down a wide tributary between floes. Hero could hear a gasping and snorting, accompanied by a hard slapping and splashing. The sounds vanished. In a moment the raft was rocked from below.A sputtering muzzle blew salt in his eyes. A cold slimy flipper flapped across his chest and slapped about his face. The fur seal barked directly in his ear. Whiskers raked his dead cheek. The seal barked again.Back below the surface it slipped. Hero listened anxiously as the splashing sound retreated whence it came.The seal swam off perhaps a hundred feet and began barking hysterically.From much farther off came a profusion of answering barks.The seal swam back to Hero’s raft, circling and calling, circling and calling, while the responders approached en masse.Now a sallow beam could be seen cutting through the fog. Several more showed vaguely along a plane yawing with some huge, barely discernible object.A herd of northern fur seals burst into sight, barking madly, beating through the ice. They converged on Hero’s raft, really bellowing now.Those odd yellow beams came in pursuit, and soon were close enough to eerily illuminate a gigantic wooden vessel parting the ice. The seals barked ferociously. Whenever the vessel leaned away, those nearest Hero’s raft would absolutely howl.The fog deepened, condensed, crystallized, and then the collective light of a dozen lanterns was playing over a low, listing nightmare. Hero could hear the shouts of many aggressive men, but the waterborne seals, rather than scatter, boarded the ice and redoubled their din, fighting their way onto his quickly mobbed raft.The sealers hurled serrated spears even as they clambered down rope ladders. When these men reached the ice the seals snapped and gnashed madly, refusing to be dislodged. The sealers lost all composure with the thrill of the hunt: wielding clubs, spears, and hatchets—sometimes using iron bludgeons or any old utensil handed down—they crushed skulls, dragged carcasses, hooked animals still spurting and bleating. Clinging though he was, Hero was flabbergasted by the way the slipping and scampering men went about their butchery, hacking and smashing more with passion than with precision. But not a single seal attempted to flee—throughout the carnage they barked all the louder, egging on their slayers, carcass by carcass drawing the impassioned sealers to Hero’s ice-locked raft.It was all so hazy and macabre. Hero’s eyes rolled back, and the next thing he knew he was sitting hunched on the vessel’s sopping deck. Two men were rubbing his limbs while another poured warm water down his back. He looked around in shock. The very notion of a boat containing more than one or two individuals—a sort of floating tribe—was way beyond his ken; so to see it, to have it come looming out of nothingness, was an experience almost supernatural.He remembered some of those fur-covered men force-feeding him mouthfuls of halibut and seal fat, and he recalled a small group standing around him, shouting words that made no sense at all. After that he had a very vivid memory of their angry little chief repeatedly punching him while hollering one angry little word over and over and over. Hero couldn’t make out his inquisitor’s face, for the large feather-lined hood quite engulfed the man’s head, yet he could see those quick eyes flash as they caught the oil lamps’ light. Finally this man stopped boxing Hero’s ear. He stared hard. In these remaining decades of the tenth century it was fully within his power to administer as he saw fit—he could have ordered Hero’s immediate execution and not a man of his crew would have objected. He hesitated only because there wasn’t a hint of resistance in his prisoner’s pinched and frightened eyes. He leaned forward, studying the wound that all but split Hero’s face in two before grunting, raising his right arm, and yanking down its seal hide sleeve. Attached to the stump of his forearm was a primitive prosthesis consisting of a thick oak cap strapped to the arm with lengths of gut, and, hammered squarely into the center of that cap, a broad, cruelly hooked blade chiseled from a narwhal’s tusk. He held this obscenity in front of Hero’s eyes, traced the face’s deep diagonal rift, and once more demanded his captive’s identity. Hero then vaguely remembered being dragged along a tilting deck and thrown into the ship’s tiny hold. He retained a strong mental image of landing in a place of musty odors and dank projections.There came a soft scuffling in the darkness, and presently a blind and exceedingly old woman felt her way to his side, mumbling as she approached. Her speech was comprised not of words; it was rather a running gibberish of cooing vowels and clucking consonants. The old woman was as mad as her circumstances; sick with sea and solitude, bedeviled by age and confinement. She sat cross-legged, patting her withered palms up his arm until she came to his face. Her strange mumbling soliloquy rose and fell as her bony fingers daintily explored the newly opened wound. Hero let his head fall back in her lap. A pair of hands like emaciated tarantulas scurried through the filth and tiny bodies until they came upon an old otter’s pelt bag that held her secrets. The woman loosened the bag’s cord and extracted an assortment of herbs, sniffing each in succession. She then scooped a handful of blubber from a bowl made of a previous occupant’s skull, kneaded the selected herbs into the blubber, and commenced gently massaging the wound, clucking and cooing while the black rats watched and waited.For nine interminable days Hero remained in that cold, stinking compartment, rocking back and forth between life and death. The old woman never gave up on him. She clung to him during his seizures, rubbed his limbs vigorously when his blood pressure fell. She gathered various accumulated skins and, using woven strands of her own long hair, sewed him a multilayered, body-length wraparound with arm sleeves and very deep pockets, working by touch with a needle formed of a cod’s rib. By this same method she was able to fashion a pair of heavily lined snug-fitting moccasins. The old woman made him eat; she masticated the cod and halibut their keepers pitched into the hold, then shoved the results down his throat with a long gnarly forefinger. She called into his screaming nightmares, talking him out of sleep and back into their foul little reality. Together they lowed in the dark, while the keel groaned along and the waves beat time.At the end of those dark nine days his strength was restored, but not his mind. Once again he was taken on deck.The vessel had reached a chain of remote wind-swept islands, rocky and treeless, naked except for patchy carpets of hardy grass. These islands stretched far to the west, shrouded in mist. The ship was making for the smallest; just a chip on the sea. When they reached depth for anchorage Hero was hustled into a rowboat and lowered over the side. He looked up, saw two men climbing down by rope. These men positioned themselves at the oars and slowly rowed toward the islet. Seated between them, Hero felt like a man being led to his execution. He snuck a peek. The rowers’ heads were lowered, their features completely obscured by the heavy feathered hoods; they had all the somberness of pallbearers. Not a word passed between them as they rigidly worked their oars: the only sound was the dip-and-purl of wood in water. Hero looked away. Against his will, he found his eyes drawn to that rocky islet waiting in the fog.Not a bird, not a sea lion, not a shrub. It was lonesome beyond imagination.Upon landfall one of the men used a spear’s point to **** Hero ashore. While his companion steadied the boat, he removed a skin sack full of half-frozen halibut, followed by a few armloads of precious tinder. These articles he tossed at Hero’s feet. He resumed his place at the oars and, without looking back, used the blunt end of his spear to shove off.Hero watched the boat moving away, watched the men climbing their ropes, watched the boat being hauled aboard. As the mysterious vessel receded he saw a number of those silent men standing at the stern, stolidly returning his stare. Their hooded forms grew smaller and smaller, finally becoming indistinct. The vessel was swallowed up in fog.Hero looked around, at a desolate world of rock and drifting ice. In the sunless pools at his feet a few purplish, flaccid sea anemones were waving in a sickly phosphorescence; along the rocks ran a tattered quilt of wild grass and lichen. It was the end of the world. He began to pace in his anxiety, only to crumple bit by bit inside his furs. At last he just sat with his face in his arms and wept. When he could weep no more he raised his head and opened his red, swollen eyes.There were gulls all around him, staring like statuary in a madman’s garden. Standing in their midst were auks and puffins and murres, absolutely spellbound, unable to lean away. The silence was broken only by a wild, fitfully pursing wind—a wind that seemed, eerily, on the verge of producing syllables. And on that wind a flock of terns was rising slowly, their beady eyes fixed on the lone sitting man. The terns watched as he trembled, and banked as he swooned.Then, beating as one, they threw back their wings and blew into the sun.

There was a blaze.Behind that blaze a pair of black, bug-like eyes met his and immediately withdrew. A man wrapped in caribou hides stood abruptly, drawing angry swarms of sparks.The Aleut peered queerly into the icy Pacific, his craggy profile merging seamlessly with a jumble of rocks showing just beyond his shoulder. The man was very tall, closer to seven feet than to six, and thin almost to emaciation.He was also a mute. Soon enough he would display a talent for communication through gutturals, but now his body language spoke louder than words. It told the shivering stranger that he was not only disliked—he was feared.The islander removed the hides he’d piled on the sleeping man. He produced a bone awl and strategically pierced a caribou hide, draped the hide over the old woman’s handiwork, and ran a cord of tightly woven tendons crosswise through his made holes, knotting it at the bottom to create a kind of cloak. He then killed the fire, heaped wood, fish, and remaining hides into Hero’s arms, and led him to a tiny cove where his long skin canoe lay in the grass. This was not the one-man kayak used by his people for centuries, but an actual canoe modeled on the graceful vessels he’d observed under the control of northern coastal tribesmen. After dragging it into the water he perched Hero in the fore, placed the cargo in the middle, and stepped into the rear like a gaunt furry spider. The Aleut dug out a paddle and began pulling with smooth strokes of surprising muscularity, his black eyes trained on his quiet companion’s back.So began their long island-hopping journey. They stepped the chain one stone at a time, living off the sea. But much as the islander disliked Hero’s vapid company, it was not in his nature to proceed expeditiously; his people, remote as they were, had learned to count not in days but in generations. Given this, the Aleut took his time. He showed Hero how to build shelters of skin and gut; during bad weather the two would sit on an island in utter silence while rain hammered on their stretched seal-intestine window. And one very clear night he pointed out constellations while attempting to demonstrate, using broad gestures, just how the brighter heavenly bodies were in perfect alignment with the Aleutians. Hero followed his guide’s gestures as a pet follows its master’s movements and, like a pet, soon became bored. The Aleut did not grow flustered. He grew ever more wary: behind that granite, weather-beaten exterior squirmed a very primitive imagination. Superstitious as he was, the Aleut was almost certain Hero could read his mind. So one time, and one time only, he threw a searing look at the back of Hero’s bowed and listing head. After a long minute of vigorous thought-projection he shifted his gaze aside. The brute appeared to feel this shift, and gently turned his head. And both saw the ocean break rhythm, and watched as otters and sea lions surfaced, noted their progress, and slipped without tremor beneath the waves.In spring the fogs lifted. The grimness gave way to serenity, a generous sun buttered the dappled sea. On the islands grass grew lushly. Wildflowers leapt on the color-starved eye.And one day the islander’s nape itched. He turned to see a flock of arctic terns casually tracking them under a gorgeous, white-plumed sky. As the day progressed the terns came drifting high overhead, slowly but surely taking the lead.The Aleut squinted against the sun. He’d never known these birds to pursue a westerly migratory pattern—the terns were distributing themselves into a rough wedge shape, much like geese on the wing.For a while he let the flock be his guide. Then, to test his stars, he cunningly steered his canoe north. At once the wedge disintegrated. Not until he’d lowered his eyes and pulled purposefully to the west did the disrupted pattern reassert itself. He peered up timidly. The wedge was now in the shape of a perfect arrowhead.Just so were the fates of mariners and aviators inextricably entwined. At night, once the Aleut had landed his canoe on the nearest pearl, the terns would light in a quiet circle and remain until sunrise. As the Aleut and Hero took to sea, the flock would quickly form that same authoritative pattern.In time the Aleut paddled his companion clear to the westernmost islands of the Aleutian chain. His people had dwelt, even here, a thousand years and more, but no contemporary islander knew for certain what lay beyond. Legend told of an enormous land mass forever gripped by cold, where a cruel people waylaid innocent seafarers for barbaric sacrificial rites.So here the islander paused. But even as he vacillated he noticed the terns were veering south.If the Aleut had been able to curse aloud he would have been vociferous. He was being compelled to follow an even less desirable course—that of the unknown open ocean. Now he looked upon his passenger’s hunched back not with fear but with loathing. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and defiantly continued west. The wedge broke up immediately. The terns dive-bombed the canoe, whirled around the windmilling Aleut, tore skyward and hovered determinedly. Something huge broke surface behind them, but the Aleut was way too frayed to turn. He dropped his head, a beaten man, and began paddling south. Little by little the birds returned to formation.The tiny canoe had no business going up against the mighty Pacific. It would soon have been swallowed and smashed, had not the terns veered in close formation whenever the distant sea appeared too rough. Once he’d lost his bearings the Aleut religiously followed their serpentine course.The days began to warm.Now the sea’s bounty all but leapt in the canoe.It seemed the Aleut was forever catching the finest currents, practically sliding down a corridor entirely free of peril. In this manner he was able to safely navigate waters no such craft had mastered before.They were proceeding south by southwest, awed children of a plenteous, generous sea. The going became easier by the day, the ocean heavier with cod.Nights the Aleut drifted comfortably, but a lifetime of wariness made him wake off and on. He’d slowly rise to find Hero sitting quietly under the stars, and soon he’d see, pallid in moonlight, a large body neatly pleating the ocean’s surface. The shape would precede them a while, only to vanish without a ripple.All this strangeness kept the Aleut’s heart in a whirl, though he took pains to maintain his poise.To allay his fear he kept a flat black stone planted squarely between them. It was his oldest treasure; an oddity he’d taken off the body of a mauled Tlingit woman when he was a child. Who she was, and how she’d come by the stone, were mysteries far beyond him, for no such piece had ever been known to Aleut or Inuk.The stone was smooth and had been worked perfectly round. Bright yellow specks were scattered about its dull black face.Long ago someone had etched a quaint and clumsy rune on that flat black surface—it was the crude, universal symbol for sun: a broad circle surrounded by several rays. When the stone was rubbed against a pelt it possessed the curious property of growing quite warm and bright in the rune’s grooves, while the surface remained cool and dull.This stone, both friend and overlord, had always “spoken to him”. It caused him to become restless when it was time to move on, and allowed him to relax when a destination had been reached. In this way he’d come to the familiar islet and discovered the unconscious little man. Just so: the stone, he was sure, was responsible for making him “feel bad” as he watched the stranger shiver, and “feel better” once he’d built him a life-saving fire from the small pile of tinder he’d found nearby.By now, however, the Aleut was wholly disenchanted with his stone, and deeply regretted having done its mysterious bidding. Never before had he been so long from sight of land, and never before had he felt so very, very small. The unimagined immensity of the Pacific was really starting to get to him when, after all their while at sea, a gray, seductive haze broke the horizon. They had reached another chain of islands, an Asian chain, the dark and smoky Kurils. Here a cold current kept the climate cool and foggy, and the chill, along with the prevalence of otter and seal, made him feel almost at home.But this place gave him the creeps; he was a stranger, a trespasser somewhere sacred. There was a looming quality to the island mountains that made him extraordinarily aware of his transience, his pettiness, his puniness. He grew more and more cautious, sure their progress was being monitored—he could have sworn he saw wraiths in the trees, and wolves padding warily in the brush. The big islands looked on breathlessly. All along the rocky cliffs, thousands of auks and puffins followed the canoe in dead silence, their heads turning simultaneously, their countless tiny eyes peering redly through the fog. As the weeks passed, the Aleut’s anxiety was manifested in tics and sighs, and he’d cringe each time the crimson sun sank behind those black volcanic summits. In his imagination the mountains would rise right out of the sea, as though to pluck him. But the islands, in all their dignity, would always refuse to acknowledge so meek a stranger, and return their eyes to sea. The Aleut would hang his head, and timidly paddle by.Then for days and days he pulled his weary canoe west—through a strait parting two mighty islands not part of the chain, and thence across a sea that was a warm, enticing bath. Spring had come to the East Asian coastal waters, and the Ainu, alone and in groups, were venturing deeper in search of increasing bounty. The Aleut, absorbed in his thoughts of sweet climate and bitter fate, was unaware they’d been spotted.This first meeting between strangers of different worlds was a brief and awkward one. A lone Ainu fisherman, seeing the Aleut come paddling out of the unknown, dropped his net and turned to stone. The Aleut, for his part, instinctively froze with his body turned half-away to make the leanest target possible. Their stares locked. Never had the Aleut seen a face so heavily bearded, and never hair so fair. The Ainu began banging on his bronze catch pail. Other fishers soon appeared from the north and south, effectively cutting off the canoe. The Aleut caressed his stone and looked to the sky. The wedge had vanished. He put down his head and paddled for all he was worth.With the word out, uncountable fishing craft appeared out of the blue and broke into hot pursuit, their pilots determined to force the canoe ashore.Suddenly they were in sight of land, and the sea was absolutely riddled with watercraft. A train of small boats cast off from the mainland, even as a posse of two-man coracle-like tubs began to surround the battered skin canoe, their inhabitants calling back and forth in astonishment at the sight of these dark, savage newcomers. But the pursuing little coastal men, banging excitedly on the sides of their boats, were not Ainu. They had very straight black hair, prominent cheekbones, and strangely slanted eyes. And their speech, oddly marvelous as it was, was a rapid series of coos, chirps, and barks. Their boats formed a tight semi-circle around the canoe, forcing the Aleut to approach the mainland. The little men banged their boats maniacally, with more joining in as the canoe neared shore.A bit farther south was a natural harbor swarming with fishing vessels of every description. As the canoe was forced into this harbor, people along the rocky coast began banging whatever they could get their hands on, until the air was filled with their lunatic percussion.Tiny brown men came running along a soft yellow cliff overlooking the harbor, gesturing wildly. The canoe was squeezed between a chain of tubs and the shore, and, as it slowed, the tempo and ferocity of the banging decreased accordingly. When the canoe came to a halt the banging and shouting stopped. Hero creaked to his feet. The first North American to set foot on Asian soil stepped out shakily.There followed the profoundest silence imaginable.A second later it was as if a dam had burst.Hundreds of hysterical, yammering voices erupted from hundreds of hysterical, clinging men and women. Hero was spun around, jostled about, handed along. He stared into their astounded, pinched little faces, and the sun, pulsing between their heads as he was turned, repeatedly stabbed his eyes. There came an excited outburst and frantic splashing which could only have been the Aleut’s violent demise, and then Hero was somehow limping alongside a primitive fishing village, blindly following a narrow dirt path that hugged the yellow cliff’s base. The warm spring sun caught the dust as he shambled. He rounded a bend and stopped.Half a dozen children stood in his way, too fascinated to run. A chatter and scuffle rose behind him. He looked back to see that he was now in the midst of a small crowd of these children, and that more were running up with cries of amazement.A stone struck his shoulder. As Hero turned another glanced off his chest.A moment later he was being pelted from all sides, and the giggles and gasps had become something wildly unreal. He dropped to his knees in a hail of hurled rocks, covered his head with his arms, and slithered up the path on his belly.A new voice broke in; an older, authoritative voice.The children scampered off squealing.Hero, shaken to his feet, found himself face to face with a diminutive, shouting, incomprehensible old man. The old man threw his arm around Hero’s waist and, jabbering all the while, led him to a secondary path cut into the cliff’s face. This path sloped gently upward over the waves. Together they picked their way to a place maybe halfway up, where the cliff’s face was honeycombed with natural alcoves and dug-out caves. Most of these spaces were used as one-man shelters; a few, cut deeper in the earth, as family hives. Strange gabbing people slid out of these holes like worms, reaching, but the little old man, who was evidently a little old man of some stature, embraced his find possessively and shouted them back inside.The path narrowed as they climbed.At its summit spread the upscale end of the neighborhood. Hero was led to a hovel nestled amid dozens of similar hovels, all scattered around a dainty stream wending between patches of stunted vegetation.The old man’s place was basically a one-room hut fashioned of earth and salvaged boat hulls, with a slender side-yard surrounded by dry, dusty hedges. But inside it was clean and tidy, with rice paper partitioning and, built into the far earthen wall, a miniature stone fireplace. The old man sat his guest in the exact center of the room. There he fed him scraps from his bowl, using long sticks to pluck out bits of fish and clumps of tiny, starchy white pellets.He studied the brute closely, watched him chew, walked round and round him. He poked here. He pinched there.And that night he lit a fire on his crushed-shell hearth.Hero curled up on a mat where the gossip of flames could reach him. Nearby, at his delicate wicker table, the old man sat in semi-darkness, illuminated only from the waist down.But his eyes were alive. They spat and darted as they reflected the fire’s light, and, when at last they’d begun to sputter, his scratchy little voice came pattering out of the dark, muttering something vile and oddly modulated, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in a gathering snarl.Hero feigned slumber, unable to ignore those paired ominous flashes. Still, the room was cozy, and the fire warm, and the play of light and shadow kicked sleep in his eyes.

In the morning he woke in the old man’s side-yard, his head pounding, a rusty iron clamp securely fastened around his neck. This clamp was attached to the outermost link of a crude three-foot chain, and the link at the other end to a long stake driven into eight inches of solid rock. The chain and stake, like the clamp, were hammered of local iron. The clamp was too tight for comfortable swallowing, the chain too short to make standing possible. Hero could, however, spread out on his chest and stretch an arm to a low row of hedges. By parting the tangled undergrowth he had a limited view of the fishing village below, and of the harbor beyond. As the days passed he was able to tweak himself a view-space discernible only from his peculiar vantage. He accomplished this by gently breaking small branches strategically, then guiding their interrupted growth with the utmost tenderness. It was his secret garden.He had no memory—none whatsoever—of being staked here. Obviously the old man hadn’t set this up overnight. Hero’s mind prodded timidly…how many others had been chained to this spot, and why?But over the subsequent weeks and months he went beyond caring. Each day was the same: just after dawn the old man would storm into the tiny side-yard swinging his reed whip wildly. The lashings were savage and unremitting. The old man, except for his eyes, would be mute. Only his whip need speak. And the snap of his reed had but one message: when you see this whip you go down, and you go down immediately.The naked savage, scarred head to foot, learned to go prostrate on the moment. Even so, the old man couldn’t resist the temptation to indulge in the occasional good old, all-out thrashing. And after each session he would toss the prisoner a vile mess of dead fish and rotting leftovers.Hero lived like this for many months, lost in a confused world of pain and anticipation. Perversely, he came to look forward to the bite of that whip, for, whether he flogged him in passion or just for sport, the old man was always sure to make it personal. It seemed their relationship might go on forever.But one day there was a great commotion in the sleepy little fishing village. Hero parted the leaves and beheld a small train of oblong coaches at rest near the harbor. Large oxen yoked in pairs lolled between the carriages, immune to the clamor around them. There were dark shaggy horses and colorfully dressed Bactrian camels. The horses and camels were tethered in the rear, but were occasionally paraded around the carriages by little men wielding long painted bamboo poles. The whole affair was exotic and mesmerizing, eccentric and profane. Hero watched all day in amazement, infected by the hubbub, though he was totally mystified by the crowd’s fascination on the carriages’ far side.And late that afternoon he saw the old man come walking out of that crowd, talking heatedly with another man. The stranger was shorter and broader than the old man, with long stringy hair and long stringy mustaches. He saw them climbing the path, saw them crawl inside a hole lashing furiously. They were lost from view for a minute, then popped up big as life. Hero glowed and curled up eagerly as they approached.The old man and stranger came into the narrow side-yard still arguing. The old man grabbed Hero by the hair and twisted until he was facing the newcomer.The stranger had oily, porous skin, and a round but grave countenance. His highly slanted eyes were bright and restless. He studied Hero’s mutilated face with keen interest before borrowing the old man’s reed. When Hero scraped at his feet he grunted and returned the reed.The stranger pulled out something shiny and hefted it in his hand. He then raised his other hand while considering Hero, as though weighing him too. The old man’s eyes glinted, and for an instant his expression became grotesquely servile. The stranger and old man, facing, nodded curtly in unison. The stranger dropped the shiny thing onto the old man’s itching palm. The old man whipped Hero frantically before taking a small ax to the chain. A few hard blows split a link, the broken link was bent back by the tool’s shaft, and the prisoner was at last released.The old man handed the stranger a short hempen rope. The stranger bowed deeply. He then tied an end of the rope through one of the remaining links and began dragging Hero along. Hero’s hands sought the old man, who kicked and cursed him all the way to the path. The three stumbled single-file to the bottom. The old man waved his arms and shouted hysterically, trotting behind until he ran out of breath. But he got in a final kick and, before he came to a gasping halt, managed to lash Hero once for old time’s sake, and to spit on him twice for luck.

There were five carriages; a long one in the center hitched to four oxen, and two smaller coaches in the front and rear with a pair of oxen on each. The carriages were old and battered, built of splitting wood slats and rusted iron braces. Various hides, spare wheels, and a hundred odds and ends were tied to the sides and roofs. Hero’s new master, using him as a ram, shoved him through the crowd to the long carriage. He hauled him up the single wood step and watched the crowd’s reaction. Children hid behind mothers, mothers hissed and jeered, men spat in that smashed, disgusting face.Satisfied, Hero’s master twisted the rope tighter and dragged him through the hide flap that served as the carriage’s rear wall.A strange ruckus began at their entrance.Inside the carriage were bulky shapes and quirky movements, yet the immediate and overwhelming impression was one of unbelievable stench. Hero, instantly covered with flies, was kicked and shoved down a foot-wide aisle. The carriage’s walls were riddled with black flecks of old dried blood, the floor coated with standing *****, a variety of small carcasses, and some clinging, indefinable slime. But the living contents of this hell were so horrifying, and so unexpected, that Hero at once dropped to his knees. Observing this, master grabbed a whip off the wall and lashed him along the floor.A number of bamboo cages lined either side of the carriage, each four feet high, four feet wide, and three feet deep. In the first cage to their left, a quadruple amputee dangled in a leather harness in a cloud of flies, jealously gnawing a chicken carcass balanced on his belly. The second cage held a man who had been burned over ninety per cent of his body, and the third a middle-aged woman with no eyes or tongue, her head shaved. The next cage housed a fully grown black leopard, its bright eyes fixed on the horrified newcomer. Then an empty cage, and finally a cage containing a demented man whose long yellow nails were busily raking a face deeply scarred and bleeding.The first cage against the opposite wall held two girls rolling in their own excrement. Siamese twins unable to part, they had developed a unique method of locomotion, and now executed a three-quarters cartwheel in Hero’s direction, their mangled, severely bitten hands attempting to reach him through the bars. In the cage next to theirs a naked dwarf glowered menacingly, his eyes following coldly as Hero’s master shoved him down the narrow aisle, occasionally pausing to lash a cage. The hissing and howling increased as each prisoner beheld the new neighbor.The third cage held an intensely sick adult Bornean sun bear, so confined it was entirely unable to move. Its hide was a patchwork of scraggly fur and grayish skin, glistening with odd eruptions. It rolled its sunken eyes in Hero’s direction, its muzzle twitching feebly.The next cage contained a man who was frightfully diseased. Broad fungal patches covered his face and limbs, terminating in waxy folds that dangled like a rooster’s wattles. Welling sores spotted his chest and back. His eyes were bugged and sallow; his lower lip drooped below his chin. He barked wetly at Hero’s passing legs.The second-to-last cage housed a rare, completely hairless Chinese albino, and the last cage a very tall, skeletal woman. The albino snapped at Hero while repeatedly banging his head against the cage. The woman hissed and coiled like a snake, her spine arching amazingly.Master hauled Hero to the empty cage on his left, swung its door open with his foot, and forced him to his knees by pushing down with all his weight. He kicked and punched until Hero had been squeezed inside, then shut and secured the wide bamboo door.Master inched his way back down the carriage, hammering the **** of his whip on each cage as he passed. There was a glimpse of daylight as he lifted the flap.Once he’d departed, the carriage grew eerily silent.Hero cautiously turned his head. Less than a foot away, the black leopard was frozen in place, one paw waving hypnotically in his face. The beast’s fangs were bared, its ears straight back, its eyes glistening. Hero turned ever so slowly, until he was looking into the eyes of the demented man in the final cage. The man cocked his head quizzically. A second later he was screaming his lungs out in a bizarre downward spiral.At once the carriage erupted. The freaks shrieked and scrabbled, the leopard spun in place. Directly across the aisle, the albino hurled himself against the bars of his cage. He batted his face with his fists, threw back his head, and just howled and howled and howled. The snake woman curled even tighter, her long scrawny legs entwined behind her head.Hero sat with breath held, absolutely silent, absolutely motionless. He very, very slowly closed his eyes.

Later that night the flap was flung high. The menagerie came alive as master, weirdly illuminated by moonlight, slowly made his way down the aisle carrying a skin sack oozing blood. He stopped at each cage to toss in a dying chicken and a handful of smelt.When he reached Hero’s cage he looked down thoughtfully.He extracted a quivering chicken and held it above the cage so that blood dripped on the brute’s deeply pleated forehead. Hero lowered his eyes. Master’s face darkened. He smashed the bird against the cage, over and over, a vein throbbing in his temple. Finally he hissed and displayed the limp chicken high over the albino’s head. The albino yelped and kicked, thrusting his hand up between the bars and jerking it back to lick away the blood rolling down his forearm.Master eyed Hero coldly before pointedly dropping the chicken into the albino’s searching hands.Master hissed again. He slowly made his way out.Soon there was a commotion outside. The carriage rocked a bit before settling. Hero, turning in his cage to peek through a rift in the wood, saw horses being urged forward. He could hear men shouting. The carriage rocked again. He looked up and saw the gibbous moon suspended in mist. For just a second something wedge-shaped cut across its soft white face.But then the oxen were grunting, the wheels had been freed, and the horses drawn abreast. Master’s lash spat left and right, and the show proceeded…west.

MA­STER

She was very round and very small, with very short, very shaggy black hair. Her arms bore the scars of numerous bites from beast and man, and around her neck ran long wheals from a particularly savage owner. Hero, having spent the better part of the morning watching master storm in and out of a strange screaming house, now watched him drag the little round woman through the dirt. For a while he listened to the song of his master’s lash, waiting for the woman to break. But there was never a whimper.It had been a difficult transaction for master, and an altogether difficult morning. For hours he’d paced up and down the main carriage, alternately murmuring affectionately into, and lashing at, each cage he visited. The sun bear, long dead and stuffed, had been taken outside for barter. It had soon been returned.Master had lingered over Hero’s cage for a good while, staring critically. He’d begun shouting, and three of his men had burst in through the flap, unlatched the demented man’s cage, and dragged him out by the feet for trade, master personally stomping on his torn and groping hands.And now master was kicking and shoving the little woman down the aisle as his men restrained her by the hair and throat. Upon master’s command these men stripped her naked and commenced pinching and slapping while making threatening faces and mocking noises. The freaks sat right up in their cages.The woman looked as though she’d fainted: her arms were lax, her eyes rolled up. Her whole face seemed to purse, and her body, head to toe, began to run blue. Her fingers quivered, arched, and clawed—the woman was self-asphyxiating. Master fairly leaped with delight while the cages rocked around him. He had the men slap her awake. Once she was fully conscious they stuffed her into the demented man’s old cage next to Hero’s.Master then looked in eagerly, one to the other, his hands balled into fists. The woman buried her odd round face in her forearms as she squeezed herself into her cage’s deepest corner. Hero gazed indifferently and went back to his peephole.Master exploded. He smacked and kicked the cages over and over, swore up and down, ran the shaft of his whip back and forth against the heavy bamboo bars. Eventually he calmed somewhat. He stared coldly at Hero, made a ***** smile, and spat right in his eyes. A tense minute passed. Master slowly made his way outside.Hero automatically relaxed. Across the aisle the albino ****** his face between his cage’s bars to sniff the newcomer. The leopard, bobbing rhythmically, emitted a high-pitched squeal that gradually descended to a steadily throbbing growl.Hero looked the stranger over. Once she’d lowered her hands he saw that her eyes were crossed, her jaw slack, her face as round as the full moon. He looked closer. There were scars all over her throat and arms: plainly, the small round woman had been treated very badly. Hero instinctively slid a foot between the bars; the woman cried out and scrunched even deeper. Across the aisle the albino quickly extended an arm. Without knowing why, Hero turned on him. The albino flinched, his eyes tearing into Hero’s. A second later he was stamping his feet and grinning wildly. Hero went back to his peephole.Next morning master and two of his men dismantled the bamboo walls separating Hero’s and the woman’s cages. They bound the frames with broad leather bands, making a single cage of the two.A common door was fashioned and secured. Master used his broad blade to shear away Hero’s rags. The men hunched around the long cage expectantly.The naked couple backed away. Master was instantly exasperated—he shouted, lashed furiously, stamped and screamed, jabbed a broken shaft between the bars with malevolent intent, whirled and hurled the shaft at nothing. The carriage’s inmates went out of their minds. At master’s bellowed command a man scurried outside, returning with a long rope of woven leather strands. Master opened the cage and, applying all his weight, pinned Hero and his new mate in an awkward embrace while his men tied them together.Again master and his men bent over the long cage to watch.When Hero realized his predicament he made a desperate attempt to reach his peephole.The men, misreading his struggles, babbled and cheered, but master threw up his hands. He then, through gesture, ordered his men to drape a number of hides over the long cage. Once these hides were in place he very quietly bent to one knee and placed an ear against the cage. After a while he cursed and rose to his feet. He shook the cage and stormed out, whipping and kicking the howling inmates.In the semi-darkness the man and woman quit fighting their bonds.A muffled patter began on the hide-covered roof.Rain, as always, had a calming effect on the carriage’s occupants, causing the freaks and beasts to slip, one by one, into lethargy or slumber. Under such a spell, the attainment of master’s goal was inevitable.It was a coupling both innocent and vile, without passion or celebration. Occasionally the freaks would surface, register their excitement by shrieking, shaking their cages, or otherwise clamoring…but very quickly the air would stifle them, weighing their heads and confusing their impulses. The atmosphere grew heavier by the minute. And, when night rolled over the carriages, the rain came down in sheets.

Leaning ******* the woman’s cage, master slipped his gnarly hand between the bars and slowly rubbed her belly in a counter-clockwise motion, his sinister features soft in the candle’s light. And he told, in nonsensical cooing whispers, of a lovingly secure and impossibly prosperous future.How large and promising that belly had become! And how wise was he, the cunning and aggressive master, in his far-reaching business decisions. He turned his affection to the motionless gaping brute; stroked the battlefield of its face, tossed in another lizard. Master rubbed his palms together. From now on it was extra lizards daily, for both the woman and her mate. He remarked, with only passing interest, his star player’s continuing indifference. They didn’t know each other, didn’t need each other.There’d been months of shows on the road now, broken only recently by this sensible rejoining of the mates at conception.Hero’s horrible disfigurement was unquestionably top draw; he was a guaranteed crowd pleaser at every stop. So now master looked him straight in the eyes and smiled. He held the reeking candle high. The carriage was absolutely silent. Master smiled again, rose to his feet, tiptoed away.Hero watched him retreat until the flap had fallen. He returned to his peephole, saw master round the rear of the carriage and slowly crunch by. For a time he could see nothing but the half-shapes of junipers bathed in starlight. There was a tentative movement to his right and a large shape came to obstruct his view.The horse stood for a minute in profile. It slowly brought its head to rest against the carriage, applying its eye to the peephole. Hero froze. The two remained fixed, eyeball to eyeball, while a breeze played odd tunes on the outer wall’s hanging paraphernalia. The horse’s big dark eye rolled nervously. A long moment passed. Slowly the horse backed off. It stood uncertainly for a while, staring at the peephole. Then it quietly moved away.

Master kicked the cages one by one, left hand and right, as he slowly made his way down the aisle. Into each cage he delivered a personalized warning in passing—a growl, a hiss, a bark—but he was quickly losing control. Animal electricity hopscotched the carriage, cage to cage, ceiling to floor, front to rear and back again. Master froze. Much more of this excitement, he feared, could seriously agitate the woman—with grave consequences for master.She was splayed on her back, in labor’s throes, her ankles and wrists bound to the long cage. Hero had been removed to give her room, and now sat hunched atop the snake woman’s cage, two men holding him by the throat and legs.Master gnashed and snarled, listening to the woman scream, watching her stupid round head bounce up and down and back and forth. He knew it! He’d been suckered, hoodwinked, scammed—ripped off like a common rube. The woman was too ******* to handle even something as natural as childbirth. Still…it was too late to second-guess himself—all these months he’d been patient—he’d been supportive and vigilant and now he would not be denied. He flogged one of the men to alleviate his tension.The blue lady was very slowly, very dramatically arching her spine. Master wiped the sweat from his eyes. When the bars were pleating her big round belly, her shoulders began drumming on the straw-strewn floor.Master screamed one very colorful expletive.A razor silence came over the carriage. Not a body moved or breathed.At last two men tiptoed around their purpling master and leaned into the cage. One obediently ****** a foot between the bars. He pushed ******* her right knee while using a hand to grip the left knee, spreading her legs wide. The other man drew a broad leather strap between her teeth. After lifting the woman’s head he pulled the strap behind her neck, knotted it to make a gag, and yanked a skin sack over her face. He looked up anxiously. Master licked his lips and nodded. The man made a fist and frantically punched the woman’s face until her muffled screams ceased. She moaned gently throughout her contractions.Master genuflected, brought a spitting candle in tight, and took a deep breath. As he raised his hand the candle’s light bounced off his knife’s chipped and scored eleven-inch blade. Master swore and reached down carefully. He flicked his wrist twice and the menagerie went mad.

The child was a tremendous disappointment.Master had eagerly anticipated an infant ******* and deformed; something embracing the best qualities of its parents. He had even designed a special cage that could be expanded by degrees as the spawn developed. There also remained the tantalizing option of a family display, though such an undertaking would require the eventual construction of a structure even larger than the cage its parents now shared. Master anguished over the logistics, knowing it would break his heart to have to cut one of his jewels’ throats just to make room for a growing child. Nights he would slowly pace the carriage with all the possessiveness of a jealous suitor, one hand maneuvering a sputtering candle, the other tenderly rapping his whip’s **** against each visited cage.But the boy was a flawless specimen; a beautiful, undemanding baby. From the moment master angrily tossed the placenta he felt cheated, even betrayed. He grimaced as it peaceably took to its mother’s breast, despite the surrounding horrors. Master hated it, immediately and entirely. The ****** thing was so docile it was almost charming. He drew his knife and was just reaching down, when an overwhelming sense of dread shook him like a rat in the jaws of a mastiff. Sweat poured down his squat, pig-tailed nape. He knew he would live to regret it, but decided to not cut the child’s throat right away. It was the oddest feeling. His knife hand had trembled for the first time in his life, and he had found himself momentarily contemplating right and wrong at the outset of a perfectly simple and commonplace procedure. That was it, then. His business instincts were letting him know there was a good, albeit unknowable, reason to let the sweet baby live. Master left the carriage anxiously, muttering in his ambivalence.The boy grew to embody his worst expectations. Not only was it a poorly oriented child, clinging to its father rather than its master almost from the moment of weaning, but it soon proved a lousy draw with the patrons. Those who paid to view the child dangling in its special cage inevitably departed unsatisfied, some vocalizing, strangely, an acute sense of shame. So once again master entered the carriage with his knife hand steady, and once again he exited trembling, his heart in his throat and his soul in a whirl. He whipped the dwarf savagely before leaving. What place conscience in the mind of a businessman?Soon as the boy could walk, master put him to work fetching and feeding. But the brat was slothful in his chores, preferring to hang around his family’s cage while staring wistfully at his father. For their part, the parents were wholly disinterested. Master would fume while Hero gazed for hours out his peephole—even as the mother lolled, perpetually ill. Sometimes that accursed woman’s condition riled poor master to no end. She could teeter at death’s door for months at a time, her body changing hues to the fascination of customers, only to bounce back with a hardiness that was of interest to no one. But at the peak of her performances the blue lady could really hold a crowd. Master produced an entire outdoors extravaganza around her: within concentric rings of raging torches his men would slowly strip her naked before wild audiences, then allow the dwarf and albino to take her while the leopard strained against a gaily festooned chain. Master circulated his crew through the crowds to encourage his patrons’ cult-like behavior of breath-holding and fainting. No getting around it: the customers were crazy about her—village to village, master’s Bactrian vanguard’s colorful robes shouted her approaching fame. And Hero’s popularity continued to soar. Many were the nights when master, pacing the perimeter, wondered just what devilry could have produced the lovely boy.Overall, Hero remained his master’s favorite conceit and hottest property. Part of the little brute’s appeal was, of course, his exoticness. And certainly the ugliness arising from his deformity was compelling…but there was a detachedness about him that fascinated every soul with a fistful of copper cash coins. Whether they ****** him, cudgeled him, or spat in his face, he remained unflappable, staring only at the aching sky. Though many would leave uneasy, master noted with deep satisfaction that they almost invariably returned.The boy soon evinced an amazing affinity for animals. No matter how agitated an ox or horse became, the child could pacify it with one hand on a lowered brow. This was a source of endless fascination for the crew. Wagers were made. The boy was pitted against oxen whipped to a frenzy. But they would not harm him; they would rather go prostrate and take the lash. Master tried to work this knack into a viable act, but his patrons just weren’t buying. They wanted freaks.When the lad was a mere five years old, master had him trained in the peripheral art of the pickpocket. The boy worked well alone, and had all the makings of a fine little flimflam artist. Master sighed, his chronic nightmares a thing of the past. As ever, his business instincts were guiding him well.Then late one afternoon he found the boy squatting outside his parents’ cage. The boy had done the unthinkable: he had deposited his day’s pickings at the feet of his father instead of bringing the ***** to master. Master flew into a rage and raised his whip to give the little traitor the lashing he deserved. But before he could deliver a single stroke his other hand shot to his chest and he staggered back against the albino’s cage. He blinked down at the boy, who regarded him steadily while scooping the plunder into a little pile.From that day on the boy placed whatever he could get his hands on at his father’s feet. As time passed he became ever more adroit at thievery, growing into a youngster both admired and despised by master and his crew; admired because theft was a cinch for him, despised because they were all that much lighter in their possessions.Now, for eleven long years the strange little train had bounced along, sometimes camping outside villages for months, occasionally pausing on connecting roads. The show traversed the heart of Manchuria, skirted the Gobi in the north, and so eventually crossed almost the entire width of Mongolia before proceeding north to the confluence of the rivers Yenisey and Ob’. Much silver and copper had come to master’s coffer, much fame to his name, but he now sat looking over a vast, unmapped Siberian wilderness. The mostly nomadic characters they’d been encountering spoke in tongues unfamiliar even to his personal valet-translator-accountant, and the tone of these nomads had been unmistakably hostile.Master huddled surlily under a canopy of sopping hides. Night was falling hard during a merciless rain, the wind was picking up, and his supplies coach was bogged in a growing sea of mud. At that moment he accepted the whole end-of-the-line concept, and knew he wasn’t going anywhere but back. And when he got back he was going to shine! He jumped from the coach.The earth took his weight for a heartbeat—and he was up to his chin in muck, splashing about on his hands and knees, sliding forward on his palms and toes. He did a belly flop into a rain-filled depression and churned to his feet with the devil in his eyes. Wallowing in mud and bile, master stomped to the supplies coach and kicked wildly at the stuck rear wheels.Somewhere between kicks he lost it completely.Master broke for his whip. One minute he was blindly lashing his men, the next he’d succumbed to a mindless ferocity. He thrashed about like a berserker; whipping the beasts, the coach, the very night. His men were scarcely able to move in all that mud, but their dread of his savagery kept them hopping. They gathered as one and shoved the coach recklessly; slipping, splashing, shouting. A minute later, three lay splayed underfoot, but the mired wheel had been freed.Throughout all this the oxen had swayed nervously, while the horses softly tramped their hooves in place. Master had his men turn the oxen about until the rickety train was pointing dead east. He checked the hitches and personally applied the lash. The oxen didn’t budge. Master swore and wiped the rain from his eyes. He had the horses hitched ahead of the oxen, but they were even less obliging. Master flew into a spectacular rage. His men, fearing for their lives, ran liberally with the lash.The swaying of oxen picked up until the entire train of carriages was rocking. Yet the oxen could not, would not be compelled, under any amount of prodding, to take an eastward step. Master looked around in exasperation.The night had gone insane.Horses were fighting hitches, oxen walking on fire.Master cursed the rain and mud and lashed all the harder. His men, seeking to please, whipped maniacally until the horses and both lead oxen broke their hitches and bolted west. The men immediately embraced the rear oxen, but the hitches shattered and the beasts stormed off. The remaining horses blew it, kicking at everything and nothing.Inside the long carriage all was chaos. The albino was neighing and screaming, the aged leopard spinning in its cage. Hero stared out his peephole, amazed at the blur of figures stumbling by in the rain.A pair of clopping blows rattled the opposite wall. Three slats cracked. A tremendous impact, and a huge section collapsed. A thrashing, hysterical mare burst through the breach in a veil of rain.The horse went mad, killing the albino and snake woman in a flurry of hooves. She fell ******* the near wall, crushing the cages. The leopard shot into the air like a rocket, slashed at the mare’s throat and vanished in the rain. The horse reared above the family cage. She was just coming down in a wheeling storm of hooves when something made her freeze. Her stare locked with Hero’s, and a second later her eyes were rolling in their sockets. The mare kicked crazily and came down ******* her left flank, smashing the long cage’s side. She whirled upright and leaped outside.For a tense minute the family sat in the rubble, rain bombarding their eyes. Nothing in their years of captivity had prepared them for such a situation. But by the end of that minute the son had taken full command. He rolled onto his back, braced himself, and kicked his parents across the aisle, through the remnants of the opposing cage, and out of the carriage. They all fell about in the mud and rain. To the west, the mare stared back strangely as she splashed into the night. The boy wedged himself between his parents, threw his arms around them, and pushed with all his might. Their bodies found a common center of gravity. Fumbling drunkenly, the family staggered through the rain in the wake of the mare.

The boy was the natural leader.Master’s innocent-looking little ex-student could quickly assess and exploit almost any situation. He did the foraging and the figuring, slept with one eye open and one fist ready. He got what he wanted by charm or by stealth, slipping off at nightfall, returning at daybreak with small slaughtered animals and chunks of dark peasant bread. He also pilfered any bauble or oddity he could get his paws on, to be placed reverently at his father’s mangled feet. Breadwinner and watchdog, he faithfully held the family together; a nuclear son. He sewed hardy feather-lined cloaks of reindeer hide, and turned a cache of marmot pelts into a kind of side-slung backpack. He was doting nurse during his mother’s episodes, and unbending apportioner of calories in lean times. Dauntless when it meant crossing mighty rivers, relentless when it came to finding mountain passes. But the endless marching, the unreliable diet, and the countless predators made the three wanderers lean, haggard moving targets. There were times when the little lamp of family was all but extinguished, and long stands in places that seemed absolutely impassable. Still, the boy would work things out. He would stoop to any level to feed Hero, and for a stranger to threaten his father was to summon a psychotic, unyielding monster. He was both spear and shield.The toughest job of all was maintaining a tight unit, meaning he was forced to become a hard-nosed ******* whenever his father was ready to wander off, which always seemed to be whenever the mother was hurting most. She’d become a tremendous impediment to Hero’s compulsion, and therefore her son’s chief nemesis. It wasn’t a big-picture concern anyway; the writing was on the wall. The blue lady’s attacks were increasing spectacularly on the steppe; her world had always been an enclosure of some kind, and the great horizon was proving just too much. Perhaps these intense affairs served as links to Hero’s suppressed memories, for at the onset of each attack he’d turn and hike, and then only exhaustion could curb him. The boy would press his mother on, dragging, shoving, and smacking—he could be mean when necessary, and though circumstances had made him the nucleus, their worlds unquestionably revolved around Hero. Where he sat, they sat. When he rose, they did the same. In this manner they marched for years across the vast steppes, single-file—father, mother, and son, respectively—unmolested, lacking possessions, always following the sun. Long before they could be measured they had drifted into obscurity.The woman’s end came quickly and dramatically, in a rocky little depression on a half-frozen field. One moment she was responsive to her son’s prompts, the next she was flat on her back, her eyelids fluttering. That night she leapt from fever to chill, from alertness to stupor. The boy, squatting beside their campfire, watched her face and hands run cadaver-blue to fish belly-pale and back again. While he was staring her eyes popped open and her hands came scrabbling. He sweated through the clawing embrace until he could bear it no longer. He oozed out and ran down to fetch his father.When they got back Hero watched incuriously for a while. His mate’s face was scrunched up and her skin the color of sapphires. She wasn’t breathing.His gaze became glassy, his eyes returned to the night. As he rose the boy immediately grabbed an arm. Neither moved for minutes. When the boy at last relinquished, his father casually stumbled off.Strange things were going on in Hero’s world. Some days he would notice how animals regarded him oddly, in a manner that seemed almost personal. He found, for instance, that particular creatures were recognizable even over great distances. A number of times he would sit with one in a stare-down, waiting patiently, until the animal’s natural disposition caused it to bolt. Though the meaning of these encounters was way over his head, he would watch, and he would listen.In time he noticed an increasing skittishness in some of these familiar creatures. Something had them spooked. He then observed a number of lean gray wolves moving in and out of the picture with an air of complete indifference: these wolves weren’t hunting; they were loitering—lounging in the grass, lackadaisically padding to the rear, filing by slowly in the distance. Once in a while a lounger would raise its head, yawn cavernously, and drop back out of sight. So unobtrusive was their behavior that even Hero’s ever-vigilant son began to take them for granted. They paused where the family paused, and halted whenever the woman broke down. Perfectly camouflaged by the gray boulders and dire sky, they were completely forgotten in the drama of her passing.There were other, far subtler events existing for Hero’s senses alone. He could perceive patterns in everything around him; in the manner vegetation gave way wherever his heart was leading, in the way so many animals appeared to be not merely mirroring, but making his course. And wind, rain, running water: these phenomena had voices. Yet not for everybody. No one—not his mate, not his son, not another soul on the planet could hear this call, for they were all of a sort. They were static, they were temporal. Hero couldn’t have cared less about the lives of his family, or about the mundane goings-on in the encampments and small tribes they skirted. Such beings lived in a world that was defined by the moment. They shouted, they banged, they clamored.But west—west was music.For his boy, once again watching Hero shamble off, the moment of truth had arrived. He looked back down, at his mother’s death mask being remade by the dying light of their campfire. As the flames dwindled he could have sworn he saw shadows creep into the wells of her eyes, while others, crawling up around her jawline, drew her bluing lips like purse strings. He hopped to his feet and ran for another handful of tinder. When their little fire provided enough light he dropped to his knees and looked again.She was sinking right before his eyes, every aspect of her expression in collapse. The boy watched clinically, fascinated. As the flames began to sputter he thought he could see large purple bruises spreading across her cheeks like the seeping limbs of overflowing pools. He bent closer.From deep in the night came the longest, the leanest, the saddest wail he’d ever heard. He turned to see the starlit ghost of his father, facing away, staring at a low barren hill. Uncountable stars embroidered the spot. The boy made out a low shape moving along the hilltop, cutting off patches of stars as it passed.The wolf howled again; a mournful, spiraling cry to nowhere and nothing. Hero’s head notched upward. He began to hike.Halfway to his feet the boy stopped dead.It took a minute to sense why he’d frozen in place, and a good while longer for his heart to quit pounding. He was aware of a nervous padding, and, once his vision had adjusted, of a lazy stream of eyes gleaming in the dying campfire’s light. The eyes bobbed around him, glared momentarily, returned to the ground.A massive gasp, and his mother was tearing at his wrist. He watched her hyperventilating, saw her bulbous yellow eyes sinking in a wide violet pool. With a sizzle and pop the last tongue of flame was taken by the night.Then her clammy hands were all over him, pulling and demanding, caressing and beseeching. He had to pry them off like leeches, had to place them clasped on her shuddering arched belly.A silky snarl rose almost in his ear.With a little squeal he sprang to his feet, even as something nearby jumped back in response.The boy stood absolutely still while the panting thing padded nearer. They stood very close, smelling each other. He instinctively extended a hand, palm forward. But it was no good; his arm was shaking out of control. The snarl rose again, not so tentatively this time. His mother’s nails tore at his ankle.The boy gently stepped away, only to find himself surrounded by the shifting silhouettes of half a dozen gray wolves. They approached in a calculated manner: two from the left, one from the right, another from behind. He was being goaded away from his mother; he could hear her fists beating the ground, and a few seconds later the sounds of a nauseating assault and ravaging.He shakily raised his other hand. Now both arms were extended, and their message was clearly one of defense rather than control. Two snapping wolves stepped aside, leaving him a gateway into the night. A cold wet nose bumped his wrist.Screaming like a woman, he took off after his father just as fast as his feet would carry him.

BOY

Alon­g the great Kazakh Steppe a man could wander a lifetime and never meet another of his kind—especially if his kind happened to be Alaskan Inuk, and if he happened to be the teenaged patriarch of a two-man family going nowhere.Here history is mostly mute.Upon this continent-spanning steppe, unnamed communities were scattered and rebuilt, lives blown about by the wind. The only centers of humanity a traveler might encounter, far removed from the Silk Road at the very crack of the new millennium, were temporary encampments of civilization at its rudest—shifting holes of cutthroat commerce existing solely for the barter of silk and spices and hapless souls. Life here was revered far less than merchandise, and the longest-lived men were those who kept their distance.Hero and his boy hiked over permafrost and tundra for years; their meandering course a drunken mapmaker’s scrawl. Chronological entries along this imaginary line would reveal that they’d stopped, sometimes for months at a time, when the father had grown too weak and disoriented to continue. Hero’s internal compass was long-sprung, and his weight had fallen considerably. He’d sit on his lonesome, scarecrow-scrawny, wistfully scrolling a 360-horizon while his boy scouted and scavenged. Then, for no apparent reason, he’d just up-and hike—sometimes northwest, sometimes along a tangential plane that always threatened to spiral. It was brutal: winters were frigid, summers, by odd contrast, running steamy to baking. Season by season these marches lost their tenaciousness, and eventually their heart. Hero’s obsession was becoming his demise.Now, to a hypothetical observer, the ratty pair of woolly camels materializing out of the rising August heat might have been mirages.These beasts were novelties here, and pioneers, for they were way beyond their normal stomping grounds. They’d tramped for months with a mind-numbing monotonousness, a thousand miles and more; round the Urals to the south, and through the hard territory braced by the Volga and Voronezh, avoiding anything that even smelled of men. They’d been wild camels; ugly, ill-tempered, and unpredictable, until the boy tamed them by touch…but this new pattern was a literal change of pace…for weeks the frail little man and his dark teenaged son rose and fell with the animals’ rhythm, lulled by it, sick of it, dreaming of lands far removed from hoarfrost and peat moss. In this manner they were borne clear to present-day Belarus, whereupon the camels’ stupefying march began to quicken. Mile by mile they put on steam, until one day they reached a broad area distinguishable from its bracing terrain only by its many deep surface cracks. Here the camels’ behavior became erratic; they crouched at an angle while tramping, their long necks oscillating, their noses bobbing along the ground. Eventually they came upon a dingy pool nestled in a pebbly depression. The local brush surrounding this pool was situated like iron filings about a lodestone. The boy hauled back his camel’s neck and laid a hand on its brow. The brute slowed to a halt. The other camel imitated its partner, move for move. Simultaneously the animals dropped to their knees.The boy jumped off, catching Hero as he fell. The camels stood watching stupidly as son maneuvered father, but after a while grew nervous and began tramping their hooves in time. They slowly stepped to the pool’s rim and knelt woozily, their noses poised just above the surface. Their whiskers danced on the pool’s face, their lids became heavy, their hindquarters quivered as they drank. Their nostrils, having fluttered in unison, remained agape. They appeared to be asleep.The boy began filling skins.The water was quite warm; he slurped a palmful and almost immediately felt intoxicated.He flicked it off his fingers; the water was bad.Three heads were now mirrored in the pool; the camels’ at ten o’clock and two o’clock, the boy’s at six. He watched their reflections continue to ripple, long after the pool had become still. His face, melting and firming, rapidly fluctuated between extremes of age, and between his own recognizable features and those of some…monstrosity. The effect was hypnotic. He felt his joints stiffen; his eyes became weak, his thoughts muddled…his face was irresistibly drawn to the pool’s surface, and for a moment he was in real peril of drowning. He ****** his head aside and creaked to his feet.Where the camels had knelt were only the prints of their bellies and knees. In the distance they could be seen galloping all-out for the horizon, right back the way they’d come. The boy watched until they were swallowed by their dust, and when he turned around his father was long gone.Now he knew it was all just a matter of time.And sure enough, after eleven more days of feebly staggering along, Hero completely ran out of gas. The boy bundled him up in a shawl, like an old woman.Sitting there, cradling an unresponsive man weighing less than eighty pounds, he couldn’t help but let his morbid fantasies run wild. He was now old enough to realize his father had at some time suffered severe head trauma, and honest enough to accept that the man was rapidly approaching a vegetative state. This understanding accompanied him like a shadow, and that night he questioned, for the very first time, his own convoluted rationale.He was just beginning to sense that his will was not his own.He built a semi-permanent camp west of the Desna and foraged in a tight spiral, always returning in a straight line. Some days he came back feeling uneasy, sensing another presence. Then it was every other day. It bugged him to no end. At last, when it became every day, he hauled his father to his feet and began a resolute march to the west.Again he became anxious, and after only a dozen yards.He turned slowly while hunching, certain something bulky had just dropped out of sight. Nothing looked suspicious, everything looked suspicious. He walked Hero some more, occasionally peering back over his shoulder. There was…something.He whirled: only masses of rock and high brush. Yet, when he really strained his eyes, he was sure, pretty sure, that he could make out a large crouching body continuous with the rocks. Heart in his throat, he began a slow steady creep, only to pause, positive the bulge, whatever it was, had shifted in response. The boy very gradually raised his arm until it was level with his eyes, faced the palm outward, and extended the arm parallel with the ground. He could almost feel some kind of current passing between his itching palm and…nothing. He walked over to Hero, stopped again. There’d been the subtlest sense of traction. The boy propped up his father in a cloud of flies and waited.In a minute the bulge drew *****.Out of the brush strolled a furry gray wild ***, her back inclined from countless weary miles; stretching her neck, pausing to nibble, taking her sweet time. Grungy as she was, she fit right in.At the boy’s first casual step she immediately hit the dirt and remained flat on her belly, one big dark eye staring between her hooves. Another step, and her **** bunched up. The closer he got, the higher her rear end rose. When he was almost at arm’s length she sprang back and danced away, seeming to bound with delight. But not to the east, as she’d come.To the northwest.She backpedaled while the boy came on whistling and cooing, matching him step for step. But the moment he threw up his arms in resignation she spun round as though cued, dropped on her belly, and peered over her shoulder.The boy was first to blink. This time he approached fractionally, keeping movements to a minimum. She rose just as carefully, sauntering northwest in reverse, and at the first sign of hesitation turned, dropped, and cautiously gazed back. The boy glared at that huge mocking **** and broke into a sprint. She easily danced out of reach, plopped down, and continued to stare.He began hurling stones, with venom and with accuracy, until she’d scurried into the brush.But on the way back to his father he could feel her tagging along.Twenty feet behind she halted, looking bemused.The boy nodded ironically. He walked Hero over, murmuring baby talk all the way, and firmly placed a palm on the animal’s muzzle once her breath grazed his fingers. She stroked his hand up and down with her whiskers, gave a kind of curtsy, and waited on her knees while he helped his father mount.At Hero’s touch a shudder ran down her body. She stood up straight. Her eyes became set, her back absolutely stiff. She put down her head and began the long trek northwest, never once breaking stride.It was an amazing march, an impossible feat. For a little over three days and almost four hundred miles she progressed like an automaton, driving herself without rest, without food or water.After trotting alongside for an hour the boy climbed on and force-fed his father berries and smoked meat, his dark eyes constantly searching the countryside. Occasionally he’d see a run of red foxes to their left, watching intently, padding cautiously. Sooner or later they’d vanish, only to be replaced by a train of feline or equine pursuers. Packs approached and receded while, high overhead, flocks formed triangular patterns that continually broke up and reformed. There was a peculiar rhythmic quality to this ebb and flow that lulled his senses further. The boy shook his head to clear it, but his exhaustion was deeper than he’d supposed—even the brush appeared to be leaning northwest.That first day he grew numb with the pace, and that night the relentless pounding of her hooves drew him into a miserable slumber. He wrapped his arms around his sleeping father and lay half atop. When he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer he tore strips from his skins, then looped his tied wrists round her neck, his ankles round her belly.On the second day she was breathing hard, but her back was still high and she showed no signs of faltering. Her eyes remained focused on the ground dead ahead. She always sensed the best routes; finding mountain passes, fording wetlands.But by the third day they could feel her ribs quaking against their legs. Her breath exploded as she marched, blood frothed and caked about her nostrils. Still she pushed herself on, her pace so steady it was almost metronomic.On the fourth day her legs were gone. She veered and stumbled, shuddering every few paces. The boy hopped off for the umpteenth time and tried to bring her to graze, but she wouldn’t be turned. He ran behind her as she staggered along, unwilling, or unable, to rest.At last a foreleg gave and she went down hard. Sobbing and snorting, she plowed her muzzle back and forth in the soil, the useless leg repeatedly pounding the ground. After a minute she raised her head and brayed at the sky, her neck muscles taut, her head slowly swinging side to side. Her cry went on and on.With a tremendous effort she pushed herself upright and butted the boy aside. Every part of her body was shaking. From her depths a low moan grew to a steady bray, and finally to a wild, pulsing howl. She came to a rise, but was too weak to climb without sliding. Stamping in frustration, she managed a few feet, reared feebly, slid some more. The boy got behind her and applied his back; it took all he had to assist her almost to the top. With a desperate lunge she crashed on her belly.Amazingly, she dragged herself on, her howl now a scream, her head whipping left and right. When she could pull herself no farther she ****** forth her neck to its very limit and, with a shudder that ran from the tip of her nose to the tuft on her tail, shoved her muzzle straight into the dirt and died.The boy hauled off his father and fell back. The animal’s eyes were fixed upwards, seeming, even in death, to be straining for a glimpse of what lay just beyond the rise. The boy half-dragged Hero the last few yards. They collapsed at the top, and together looked over the cold Baltic Sea.

At water’s edge a haggard fisherman sat on his boat’s ravaged deck, blindly staring out to sea. His was a queer vessel; a family structure built more like an aft-cabined barge than like seacraft typical of that period. The fisherman’s boat, like his mind, had been abused beyond repair.He’d lost much in his life. Time had taken his dreams, pox his face, hardship his back and shoulders. And, more recently, a brawling band of drunken Baltic pirates had ***** his wife and daughter before butchering them along with his two fine sons, while he sat helplessly bound to the mast. Finally, to further their delight, they’d set the boat aflame and sent it crackling against the sun; knowing he could hear their hoots and howls, knowing he would drift undead, accompanied only by this last unspeakable memory.But a squall, without prelude, had doused the flames and blown his home ashore.There he’d remained for a full long day, staring at nothing, his shattered life caught on the rocks. On the second day he’d worked himself free and commenced staggering about in his memories, gathering shards. It was a pathetic claim. He made a pile of all the old bedding and linen and usable cords, and set about sewing a sort of mementos sail. All that third day he had sewn, and on the fourth he had hoisted this sail and been moved to see it billowing in a northwest-blowing breeze. Again he just sat and gaped. And later that day he’d become aware of a commotion taking place on the long grade leading down to the water, where a writhing mass of seagulls was proceeding like a tremendous slow-motion snowball. He’d never seen anything like it. It wasn’t uncommon to find gulls in a group of many dozens or more, but there must have been two, maybe three thousand of the birds now swarming toward his boat. They were making an incredible racket. In the midst of this cloud could be seen a couple of slowly walking figures; as they neared he made out a small man accompanying a boy in his late teens, both dressed in odd skins. When they reached the rocks his eyes were drawn to the small man’s face. It was a foreign face, brutish and dark, with a deep cleft running from above the right temple to the jaw’s left side. Whatever instrument had felled this man had been devastating—everything in its path was smashed, and with permanence. The forehead was caved in. There was no bridge to the nose, the left cheek was completely collapsed, one side of the mouth was a mangled mess. The jaw itself had set improperly, so that it jutted to the side. The general impression, especially from a distance, was of some unforgettable circus freak’s countenance puckering at an angle. It was a face right out of a nightmare. But there was nothing frightening about the eyes. They were the eyes of a child.Maybe half the gulls hopped screaming on the rocks. The rest circled overhead.The boy considered the fisherman curiously before placing a foot on the charred deck. His gaze went around the boat, lingered on the makeshift sail, returned to the slumped figure. He passed a hand before the eyes. No response. He then leaned in close and placed his fingers on the man’s forehead. Immediately that bleak expression became fluid, brimming over with horror and heartbreak. Tears rolled down the fisherman’s cheeks as he gasped, shuddered, and backed up the scorched mast to his feet. Thus propped, he squinted at his visitors and was overcome by a wave of homesickness so strong he had to turn away. The feeling bewildered him, for this vessel, and this sea, were all the home he’d ever known. He clung to the mast while the boy helped his father board. Once he’d collected himself, the fisherman tore a heavy crossbeam from the toasted cabin. He and the boy used this as a lever, and together they shoved the boat off the rocks. The wind picked up nicely, and the little craft was swept across the water.Exploding off the rocks, the gulls shot after the boat as if it were brimming with fish, the loudest and orneriest vying for favored positions directly overhead. The melee attracted additional gulls—they came shrieking in their hundreds from all sides, banking and calling in the oddest manner, until the mass grew so thick as to cast a permanent shadow on the boat. All day long the clamor continued, and all that night. The fisherman rolled with the rudder, listlessly, allowing the sea to control him. Eventually he let go, that the wind might bear them where it would. His sail ballooned but held firm, and the boat fairly zipped across a sea somehow smooth as glass, broken only by the vacillating ripples of bottleneck dolphins and migrating humpback whales. The three tiny sailors sat hunched together, motionless, all throughout the next day, until the black coast of Sweden loomed in the twilight.As the boat neared land the cloud of gulls broke up, shot to shore, and landed in groups of a thousand and more; a dizzying, wildly uproarious reception committee.The dung-covered boat slammed into the rocks, shattering the fisherman’s trance. He intuitively walked his **** up the mast and, swaying there, watched the boy draw his father over the side and lead him to a clearing at wood’s edge. There in the dusk he made out what appeared to be a hefty spotted runaway heifer hitched to a rickety wood wagon. He saw the cow gallop up to meet them, saw the boy look around warily, saw him help the little man into the wagon and climb in beside him. The animal immediately began picking through the woods, the large brass bell round her neck clanging forlornly.The clarity of that bell made him realize just how quiet it had become. He craned his neck: there wasn’t a gull in sight. He fell back against the shot mast and slid onto his tailbone with a clacking of teeth. His eyes were misting up. In the gathering dark a few sail fragments flew past and were ****** into the woods. The boat rocked and relaxed. After that there was only the sound of the receding bell’s sad, monotonous song being batted about by the wind.

The little cow strode through moonlit woods until she came to a path formed by the rutting of wheels over many years. She followed this broken, serpentine track throughout the night, and by morning was passing farms and, occasionally, crossing broader paths that might realistically be defined as roads. All day long she bore down that ragged track, until she came in late afternoon to a clearing near a village. Here many such tracks converged. And here the boy slipped away while she grazed.Sometime after dark he returned with a load of straw, a couple of pilfered blankets, and a fat iron kettle. Crammed in this kettle were salt, tubers, cheese, a few loaves of rye, legumes, and a plump foot of lamb sausage. Most of this ***** he’d brought in tied to the bowed back of a huge, puffing, highly amenable black pig which, thus laden, now followed the boy’s every step like a fresh convert tracing the heels of the messiah. The boy built a fire under the stars, filled the kettle with creek water, and commenced simmering their dinner. While waiting, he couldn’t help but note an odd feature of the local flora: plants, especially trees, all seemed inclined to a northwesterly disposition, though no amount of wind could account for it. He shooed the pig. But rather than run along, it backpedaled in a nervous circle, round and round in reverse, until it lost its balance and fell on its ****. There it remained, a yard behind the wagon. The boy fed his father and lined the wagon with straw. They settled in for the night. The boy must have nodded, might have dreamt, but while he was drifting he became aware of a stirring in the woods. He sat up, saw the pig’s eyes gleaming inches from his nose. And there were a number of animals, some wild, some strayed from farmsteads, arranged in a broad circle around the wagon, their eyes glinting with moonlight. Not a rustle, not a peep, was lifted from the woods.In the morning he woke to find the pig still staring. The fidgeting heifer, impatient to roll, began her long day’s march while Hero and his boy were yet stretching and scratching, and the ******* pig, galloping heavily, fell in close behind. Each new day this routine was repeated. They banged past farms and small communities until the ruts intersected a broad rocky road wending halfway across the kingdom. The cow addressed this road with vigor. They picked up followers—a goat here, a couple of sheep there—which hurried after the wagon as best they could. The cow stomped on with resolve, mile after mile, day after day, her bell keeping steady time. That bell’s peal attracted foals, lambs, and kids into the wagon’s narrowing wake. Hares hopped between hooves and wheels, boars and blue foxes fell in and withdrew. White falcons, normally solo fliers, whirled into wedge shapes high overhead.At night the entire train would camp on the road while the boy raided proximate farmsteads, always returning fully laden. And as soon as the fire died the colony grew, creature by creature, and the moment the sun broke the horizon the heifer came to life and moved on, but each day a bit more resolutely, as though straining to meet a deadline. The march took on a sense of real urgency. The cow pressed on with attitude, the clang of her bell more strident with each passing mile. Soon her followers numbered in the hundreds, as animals deserted their farms or crept out of the woods to tag along. Tillers and traders stood dumbfounded, amazed by the bizarre flow.Once they’d crossed into Norway the frothing cow veered hard to the west. The pace really picked up; no longer were Hero and his boy afforded the luxury of a night’s sleep in one spot. Days blurred into a single variegated flow as the bashed and lopsided wagon continued building its entourage; the riders were surrounded dawn to dusk by a confused and confusing scurry. Word of the flow’s weirdness preceded it clear to the Norwegian coast, so that now plowmen and merchants, wearily gathering their goggling families, found themselves lined in anticipation along the king’s highway. Horsemen went pounding to and fro with news of the procession’s progress and particulars, children ran through the streets banging pots in imitation of the cow’s approaching bell. Livestock wheeled and stamped, fowl leaped and crashed.The slobbering cow broke into a run.Bystanders trotted behind, calling back and forth excitedly, while the wagon’s permanent following squealed and squawked between their heels. The cow made a hard turn onto a widening swath in the brush. This swath, seeming to strain against the soil, ran straight down to the crest of a low hill overlooking the Atlantic. On either side a crowd had been studying the phenomenon for some time, but now all eyes swung to the dark and disfigured man and his son, clinging to the disintegrating wagon behind the careening spotted cow.The trailing people traded views as they ran. Most—at the very outset of the new millennium, with Christianity burgeoning throughout Europe—leaned to the miraculous. Others, just as superstitious but prone to a darker point of view, threw looks of horror at the deformed little man. Yet they ran no less eagerly.The galloping crowd made for the seaside, where only one local event of any moment was brewing: on the coast a Greenlander Viking was preparing his longship for the rough voyage home. Impetuous son of the great island’s first permanent European settler, he’d just been baptized in Olaf’s court, and was now eager to sail—but not as a warrior—as a missionary. While his spirit remained in a tug-o’-war between his father Erik’s will and that of gods old and new, his duty was clearly to his king. And Olaf had charged him with the Christianization of pagan Greenland.Something on the wind now made this destined man turn his head. From behind the gentle hill to his rear came a kind of thunder. Heads popped up, followed by a confused explosion of voices, and seconds later a frantic bug-eyed heifer burst into view, dragging the wheel-less skeleton of a shattered wooden wagon. On the wagon’s splayed frame a man and teenaged boy clung for their lives as the spewing animal made a beeline for his ship.The new missionary, still egocentric enough to assume his Maker might actually toss him a personal, surreptitiously rolled up his eyes. The sky yawned at his arrogance. At his side a smallish cowled man rose irritably, but the missionary sat him right back down. He then snorted, squared his shoulders, and signaled his men to halt their preparations.Knowing it was expected, he gathered his hard Nordic pride and coolly made his way into the crowd.

The priest clung to port, gagging above the waves.After a completely uneventful minute he leaned back and stared through tearing eyes at the distant backdrop of gathering mists. Weeks now…a man of his constitution had no business at sea.Along, too, were a quirky little man and his fiercely devoted son.Through his pantomime, the boy had been so persistent in begging their passage that refusal, under the circumstances, would have been unbecoming not only a man of God but a man of the world.So there it was: a priest who couldn’t hold his lunch, a witless eyesore who couldn’t sit still, and a surly teenaged protector who snarled at the first hard look. This crossing just had to be some kind of divine test—of mortal patience as well as moral values. Norsemen weren’t made for babysitting.The mists condensed.And the shifting shape became a hard familiar coast.And the longship was mooring, and the crew were jostling and clambering, and the big missionary had booted off the haunted little freak and his hypersensitive son, and was condescendingly half-escorting, half-carrying, the green priest ashore.And they were home.

Priest in tow, Leif quickly took up the Christianization of Greenland’s Western Settlement, as per Olaf’s command. The mangled little man and his son followed him around like dogs, slept outside his door and annoyed his visitors, ultimately proving far easier to adopt than to shake. Barely tolerable shadows…still, the lad was simply amazing with livestock…and though the youth’s useless father seemed time and again to be just begging for a whooping, his son’s presence bore some ineffable quality that always curbed the missionary’s hand. Several times he’d witnessed the father approached by settlers bent on abuse. Each time the boy had stepped in, and each time the troublemakers were mysteriously repelled. The missionary of course didn’t attribute any kind of celestial intervention to these episodes, and certainly the popular notion of devilry was a natural reaction to the pair’s outrageous exoticness, but…in the son’s company, and even under the sharp eyes of his fellow Norsemen, Leif more than once found himself oddly moved to protect the father. And so the deformed man and his boy day by day blent in—as village idiot and mystic guide. And when in time a ****** brought tales of an unvisited land to the west, it was only natural for the restless Greenlander to buy that ******’s boat and, before stalwart comrades, weary family, and whimsical God Almighty, reluctantly accept the eccentric father and son as sort of seagoing mascots.Hero was from then on irrepressible. During preparations he would pipe and stammer in his half-mute way, brimming with a confounding anxiety that kept him underfoot and at odds with all. On frigid nights he perched on the westernmost rocks, moaning to the horizon in the strangest fashion while his son stood guard. He positively spooked the locals; they’d gossip, nervously and with bile, of an answering wind that came wailing off the sea like a banshee in labor. The whole island wanted rid of him. And when his champing beneficiary, still clinging to the notion of Christian charity, bundled him aboard with his son and a crew of thirty-five, not a single settler was sorry to see him go.Almost from the moment they cast off everything went wrong, as all attempts to control the longship were met with some kind of unknowable countermanding force. Vikings were not renowned for passive resistance—they fought, squaresail and steering oar, leaning oarsman to oarsman, until the ship rocked on the waves like a bucking bronco. An erratic weather system pursued them, worsening dramatically at each minute variation in heading. The Norsemen doubled down, and when the clouds finally burst wide, the cowling sea went mad. Dervishes whirled about the hull, crisscrossing winds bedeviled the sail. Patches of kelp belonging to much warmer waters came heaving alongside, fouling the work of the oars, while far to the west a humongous fog bank formed, eradicating the navigable field. The lightning-streaked horizon was a throbbing gray slit.The longship became locked in a slow westerly current.Fatigued crewmen complained of headaches and hallucinations, and of a nasty, slightly metallic tang to the air. There were numerous walrus sightings; bobbing flippers and snouts amid drifting ice chunks that came prowling the North Sea like a circling pack of famished white wolves.Worst of all was the boy’s father—instantly agitated by everything and nothing, prey to some primitive impulse that caused him to periodically incline his head, shudder to his feet, and loop his arms as though embracing the sky. Leif would watch him scrabbling at the prow like a cat at a tree, furs snapping in the wind. He’d watch the boy re-seat him for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time be filled with an immense contempt. By now he’d acknowledged that it takes a special kind of strength to shoulder charity and tolerance. That brown little freak struck him as an enormous malformed barnacle, slowly working its way back up the prow. Trying so hard to go unnoticed, looking and listening so intently, though there was nothing to see other than the growing shelves of fog, and nothing to hear save the rising, almost hysterical voice of the wind.Leif sniffed the air, his ******’s instincts nagging him. This was a foul current, and a fool's errand; he took a deep breath and tentatively ordered the longship brought about.The ship kicked twice, as though an enormous submarine hand had seized and released the hull.A whirl formed in the water, causing the keeling ship to sweep around like a clock’s second hand. All about them, those drift-ice ghosts cruised dangerously near.But they’d been liberated from that accursed current. Leif fiercely urged on his rowers, and at last the ship broke free. They made a bead due north.Night came and the temperature plummeted.Small sheets of ice converged, drifting between the hunks. The Norsemen, instinctively huddling amidships, passed out one by one in a massive pile of fur and flesh. In the freezing silence the floes bumped and recoiled, bumped and gathered, bumped and bonded. The tiny ship, swallowed whole, was dragged along in a labyrinth of black sea and interlocking slabs of ice.

The Norsemen came to in a surly, foul-smelling heap, lost at sea. While they were still groggy a voice cried out that a darker patch was developing in the fog. The men all fell to port. Under the confusion of their voices could be heard a distant rumble.At this Hero hauled himself up the high curved prow. A half-light began to penetrate the fog, barely illuminating the irregular faces of drifting ice. The missionary stormed forward and indicated by gestures that if the boy didn’t restrain his father he would have the man tied down.The longship stopped dead in the water.The men found themselves regarding a perpetually frozen coastline swathed in bluish veils of mist. Directly before them loomed an immense ice cliff hundreds of feet high. Rising beyond this cliff were endless snow fields, where lean violet shadows seemed to drag about of their own volition. And upon those bleak fields a thin howling wind prowled, kicking up brief white dervishes, leaving a strange zigzagging signature.Even as they stared, a darker shadow high on the ice cliff’s glistening face began to widen, accompanied by a cracking sound that could be felt before it was heard. With the illusion of slow-motion, a stupendous chunk broke out of the cliff and came screaming toward the sea. It hit the water like a bomb. The thunder of its separation and the explosion of its impact took a moment to reach them. Then, out of a spewing crater of crests and spume, the new calf came lunging, tromping the sea so hard the longship, fully a mile to sea, was swept out and ****** back in like a cork. The floundering mountain of ice bobbed and lilted, generating huge waves which continued to rock the ship long after the monster had settled. In a while the roaring in their ears subsided and there remained only the swirling, nerve-wracking howl of the wind.The missionary’s eyes swept left and right. Whatever this place was, it sure wasn’t the fair shoreline he’d been promised. Hero again scrambled up the prow, and Leif again yanked him down. This time he made good his threat; he had the little nuisance bound, though he was half-tempted to let him take his chances overboard.From somewhere deep in the haze grew a soulful, otherworldly call. It went on and on, electrifying the air, bottoming out once the ship had merged with that previously fought westerly flow.By now Leif’s nerves were shot. He ordered the oars raised.The longship began to drift. Ship and ice were pulled due west.The clouds fell far behind as the ship embarked upon an amazingly calm sea—so calm its entire visible surface was featureless except for the faint wakes provided by the ship and its hulking ice companions. To the east a huge fog bank appeared on the horizon, and a while later a smaller bank to the north. Then a very dense one to the south. In time these banks converged, imperceptibly becoming a single mass that closed about the ship, bit by bit creating a slowly heaving dome. Tiny beads of water appeared on beards and eyebrows; in a minute everything was soaked. The only sound was that of the dragging steering oar. The men were now sopping ghosts, speaking only with their eyes.Directly ahead the fog began to dimple. The dimple became a hollow, the hollow a cave, and then ship and ice were being towed through a low, ever-extending tunnel in fog. The current increased its pull. Ship and drifting ice accelerated through the tunnel.After a while the missionary quietly stepped forward. He stood with one hand on the prow’s neck, listening to the mist, so motionless he might have been a carved extension of the longship’s aggressive design. Not a man breathed. The tunnel’s dilating and contracting bore was producing an all but seamless series of oscillating, near-phonetic sounds. Leif almost tiptoed back. No god, pagan or Christian, could account for the strangeness of this situation.They were borne on a course that grew more southerly, and the following day beheld an inhospitable shoreline glazed by dazzling white beaches. Their course held. Two days later they came upon a far pleasanter, thickly wooded coast. Here the current released its hold, and here the missionary untied Hero and personally placed him and his son in a tiny oak faering. He was just as sick of them as he was excited by this promising new land. Once the rowboat had been heaved over the side, he and another man stepped aboard and took up the oars. They began rowing with easy, powerful strokes.When the boat kissed sand the missionary stood unsteadily.The first European to set foot on North American soil now placed one hand on his crucifix, the other on his sword’s hilt, and awkwardly plunged his leg into the thigh-deep, ice-cold surf. Before he could take another step the boat lurched as Hero leapt headfirst into the water, followed an instant later by his son. The Greenlanders watched sourly as the two splashed their way into a mad dash for the waiting pines. Leif wished them both good riddance and turned to grin wryly at his fellow Norseman. He must have blacked out for a second, must have been blinded by a shaft of sun, for he found he was staring stupidly at a point midway between his companion and the longship. It felt like he’d been kicked between the eyes.Everything was dissolving.He studied the beach and pines closely, but saw nothing of the man or his boy. He turned back, disoriented. With what seemed a superhuman effort he took up his oars. He rowed out sluggishly, in a dream, and the fog rolled in to meet him.

The boy broke into the trees and embraced a trunk, fighting for breath. What happened next happened so fast and so unexpectedly he didn’t have a chance to react.Three savages stepped from behind the pines and beat him to his knees. They twisted his arms behind his back and hauled him to his feet. He’d barely processed the impression of a wild painted face when something sharp struck him ******* the temple and tore down his cheek to the jaw. Two of the assailants manhandled him into an upright position and held him in place while the third brought his weapon down again and again and again.All but dead, he watched a nightmare countenance shouting through a shot veil of blood, and behind that image a reeling crimson sun. He lay there gushing while the savages went through his rags. They propped him against a pine and shrieked with triumph, tore the hair and gory scalp from his skull, threw back their heads and screamed at the screaming sky. Tooth and nail, they ripped apart his face and throat and, certain he would die, split what bits of fur were left and let his carcass lie.

HERO

The weeks stretched into months while he fought his way back into the light.He progressed in stages; only half-conscious, stumbling along in a blood-red stupor punctuated by a slow strobe of frequent blackouts. Days loomed and decayed, nights pounced and were gone; the backlit, swirling gray cosmos collapsed and expanded on every missed beat of his pulse. A thousand times he broke down to die, and a thousand times he clawed to his feet, driven to pursue a tiny, ghost-like figure fluttering in his memory.Everything conspired to check him.A bay like an immense landlocked sea was skirted over months or years—it was all the same. Cold locked him in, Hunger drove him afield, that rude ***** Wind lashed him blind, wore him like a shoe, screamed for his skin while he worked his way west.Somehow he ate, somehow he avoided being eaten; the instincts that had served him halfway around the planet were still vital beneath the abused exterior. His simple burrows became sturdy temporary shelters. He relearned the art of fire, and began to cook what he killed. He manufactured crude snares and weapons and, when his recuperation was complete, paid closer attention to the on-again, off-again trail he’d been following…forever.Sometimes this trail would call to him like a lover. Other times he stood peering uncertainly, trying to recapture meanings and aims. Then the ground would turn spongy and the sky revolve, and once again he’d be lying all but dead in the woods, while from the face of the sun emerged a vile winged horror, its ugly pale head lashing side to side, its cruelly hooked beak dangling something that glistened in the wild pulsing light…then the fat moon, rising like gas against the icy black night…the feel of the wind: the slashing of her nails, the chafing of her hem…the sound of things crunching and pausing and sniffing…then the sun, blazing anew. And again that thing, descending, its wide black wings beating slowly, metronomically—but none of that mattered any more. For his mind had quit him, had flown howling into ice and pine to roost with things surreal. In the day his madness might muddle and run, or spend the light stalking, cat-like, watching and waiting. But at night it came creeping from all sides. Sometimes it came in waves. It could gnaw like the devil, or wrap around him like a warm second skin. But none of that mattered either.The only thing that mattered was the trail—whether it was lost for good, or for only a while. He’d been following it through his episodes, always north, wondering just who and where in the world he was, and trying to shake a ridiculous notion of being led on a wild goose chase.The cold was unbelievable.The deeper north he delved, the more confused he became. He grew starved for colors and scents, finding nonexistent patterns in the stark contrast of shadow and snow. He thought he could detect a kind of otherworldly design in the overwhelming number of dead ends he encountered, and, too, in the diabolically frustrating locations of natural obstacles. He seemed to be forever fighting the wind—a hulking, despondent snowman, he hiked face down and focused, while another aspect of his attention floated just behind, disembodied, watching his silent pursuers…leaving no tracks, blending perfectly with the environment in their clever winter coats…not predators, but creatures that normally should have been hightailing it away from him. By the time he could turn, they’d become nothing more menacing than snowdrifts. But they pursued him nevertheless.And so his paranoia increased…had there ever really been a trail…and when did this miserably cold, miserably anemic crusade begin…his long-term memory was falling apart a chunk at a time. It just got colder and colder and colder until at last, one snippet of a day during one blur of a year, he found himself utterly lost, and clueless as to his history or objective. His mind was a blank, as colorless and featureless as the endless world of ice around him. He’d come this far solely to learn that the only trail he’d been following was his own—and now even that trail was succumbing to ice. On all sides there was nothing to see but an infinite field of glaring whiteness, and nothing to hear but the ululating wail of the tubular polar wind. It was the loneliest, the unholiest, the creepiest sound imaginable. But it wasn’t insanity that made him wheel. It was his self-preservation instinct.And then he was somehow on his knees in the woods, facing a furious setting sun.Whole seasons had passed from his memory like chalk from a board. His only recollections were those of a broken, haunted animal: of being perilously sick, of fearing the unseen, of blindly struggling across a solid-white wilderness. That he’d survived such an ordeal meant nothing to him. And that he had in some indecipherable manner stumbled across the cold-as-stone trail did not fill him with amazement or with thankfulness—there simply wasn’t anything visual or emotional left to draw on. A significant part of his life had been whited out.But now he could focus entirely on the trail. And before he knew it, the fuzzy area between fantasy and reality found a seam. He began to analyze and plan. He paid attention to hygiene, and kept a kind of running mental journal. Things were sorting out. Yet there were nights when the old sickness would resurface, reestablish its hold, and leave him sweating and uncertain under the stars. Then, paradoxically, his perception would become razor-keen. And so he would see, on a distant hilltop, a pair of scrawny silhouettes, one on four legs and one on two, slowly crossing the faintly pocked face of the setting moon. He would become strangely excited, and thereafter retain crystal-clear images of himself, as if seen from above, hurrying with adroitness through the silent, graveyard-like setting of black and blue night and white-frosted trees. Then the fuzzy area would broaden, and it would be the next morning, and he would be staring at the prints of man and elk in snow. And he would see how the elk’s prints doubled back, and how the man’s prints terminated where he had obviously mounted his guide. An unfathomable glow would bring tears to his eyes. But, even as he gathered himself, a fresh snowfall would wipe out the prints. And once again the world would plummet into white. And the wind would howl as the snow hammered his eyes. And he would ***** on.

A haggard animal sat shivering in a small grove of frozen pines, watching his campfire die. His eyes were fixed. Like the fire, he was running out of warmth, running out of fuel. There wasn’t a whole lot of tinder round his bones, and not much feeling left in his limbs. The slowly heaping downfall was burying him alive, but he was too numb to care.It had taken him six long years to cross an entire continent, and during that time he’d known only cold and excruciating pain. The pain was leaving him now. The cold was making it right. His eyes glazed over.Along a narrow plain to the west a herd of caribou filed dreamily through the snow, cutting across a panoramic backdrop of dazzling white mountains. The slow-motion parade was hypnotic. After a while it occurred to the drifting man, in a roundabout way, that he was dying, that he was nonchalantly freezing to death. Concurrent with this notion there rose in his chest a wonderful liquid warmth. His eyes slowly closed and, once shut, began to set fast.He was jolted from within. It was as if he’d been kicked in the heart.He ****** to his feet, pounded his fists on his thighs, felt nothing. The breath spurted from his mouth in small white clouds as he stumbled downhill after the slow caribou train. He swam through the snow, hallucinating, imagining that certain individuals in the herd were mocking him by slowing and accelerating, while others glanced back with expressions of contempt.As he burst into their midst the animals stepped aside indifferently. A few galloped ahead to keep up the herd, but most simply sidestepped while he danced there, stamping his feet and smacking his hands. The herd grew thinner, until only the old and infirm were filing by. The man desperately embraced a hobbling female for warmth, but she cried out and kicked, triggering a panic reaction in the herd. Clinging for his life, the man was dragged along beside her as the herd stormed into a maze of flying ice and snow. His weight caused her to stagger sideways until they slammed against the flank of a sick male. The man instinctively threw an arm over the male and, thus draped between them, was borne across the drifted plain for upwards of a mile, his freezing feet alternately dangling above and dragging through the snow. The herd broke into a hard run, forcing him to assume a broken trot. Soon his legs were stinging. Sensation rushed through his body.Now the herd, still picking up speed, began to contract, jamming him between his bearers. There was a quick jolt to his right and he was lifted clean off his feet, nearly straddling the bucking female. It had become an all-out stampede. Through hard-flung snow he saw the cause: just ahead, the caribou had run head-on into a solid wall of galloping wood bison, and both frantic herds had blindly veered to the east; were in fact running side by side down a deep, ragged canyon—were pouring over the canyon’s lip like a cataract. He was approaching, at breakneck pace, that very place where the converged herds so abruptly swerved. The hanging man snarled as he was borne inevitably to the point of deflection.There came a concussion at his left shoulder, followed by a blast of snow. In an instant the ailing male was tumbling head over heels to the east, ****** into the stampede’s plummeting mass by the fury of its descent. The man and female, rebounding from this impact, were shot to the west in a crazy jumble of flailing legs. The caribou lost her footing, flew nose-first into a snowbank, and came up running. Kicking off, the man used the last of his strength to heave himself astride. At first she fought to shake him, but the spell of the run was too strong. She and half a dozen others went pounding in the opposite direction of the stampede, quickly joined by a number of bison that had likewise splintered from their herd. The riding man could make out their huge hulking shapes thundering by in a blizzard of flying ice, could hear their heavy gasps and explosive grunts. One passed so close he felt its massive flank brush his leg. He peered to his right and saw a black, pig-like eye regarding him excitedly, moving up and down like a piston as the beast ran alongside.The eye shifted, focusing on the gasping, completely obsessed female. The bull dropped its head and slammed into the caribou’s side, sending her and the man careening down a ***** to the west. The caribou brayed hysterically and her backside went down, but she managed, despite the weight of her rider, to return to all fours and frantically continue along the *****. Again the bull charged, crashing into her shoulder. The man and caribou were launched sideways into the white searing air.He sat up carefully. The huffing bison was straddling him like a bully laying down the ground rules. Its big wiry beard came right up to brush his chin. The stench of its breath was stupefying.The bull stamped and snorted, thrusting its stubby horns left and right as the man used his elbows and heels to back away. The bull followed, move for move. When the man collapsed under his own impetus the bull shoved him along with its snout, bellowing furiously. Clear down the ***** they lunged, shoving and lurching, until the man lay sprawled on his back; up to his chin in snow, completely helpless. The ton of a bull butted and kicked, but only glancingly: those hooves could **** with a blow. At last the man, in one clean sequence, spun on his rear, dropped to his side, and went rolling down the ***** using his elbows for ******.At the bottom ran a narrow fence of frosted saplings marking an ice cliff’s precipice. He lay face down in the snow, too done in to do anything but **** at an air pocket.And there came a high-pitched crackling, a sound like the protracted gasp of embers in a dead fire. He turned just as those saplings began leaning to the west, their frozen skins cracking with the strain.The bison bellowed menacingly.The sprawled man looked back and saw it still standing with legs spread wide, silhouetted against the sky. In a moment it began huffing downhill, lurching side to side, surfing the snow between lunges.It chased him through the genuflecting saplings straight into a frozen gully where, protected by a few feet of insurmountable verticality, he was able to slide on the ice between its stomping hooves, downhill out of reach, then downhill out of control—spinning just in time to glimpse a breathtaking vista:Partly framed by the gully-straddling saplings was a vast crescent of jagged white mountains seemingly huddled round a small stretch of snow-draped pines. The little wood these mountains surrounded was isolated in a broad lake of solid ice. Hundreds of fissures radiated crazily throughout this packed ice field, appearing to issue from somewhere near the frozen wood’s center, which was completely obscured by a ring of rising mist. Above this thumbnail panorama the sun showered gold.Then the gully dipped radically, and he was skidding headfirst, slamming back and forth against its slick white walls. This uncontrollable plunge had the positive effect of getting his blood flowing. Yet it tore him up. Had the gully concluded in a cul-de-sac, or had further progress required a single calorie of uphill effort, his struggle would certainly have ended here. He would have been too weak to move, and death would have been swift.But there was a glacier—a great river of ice pouring slowly out of the clouds. The gully, terminating in a little scoop formation near the glacier’s base, spat him flailing onto its gnarly glass hide. He went head over heels, bits of skin and fur flying like chips from a band saw. Somehow he gained his footing, and then he was running against his will, tumbling and recovering and tumbling again.He didn’t catch much of that crazy run. He half-glimpsed whirling walls of ice, felt a fickle surface underfoot, and broke through an assaultive mist that clung to his ankles and arms. He remembered having the ragged hides torn right off his body, and then being skinned alive. And he remembered reaching the glacier’s base and crawling like an animal; round its sweeping drifts, past its peaked moraines, all the way to a twisting frozen gorge.And he followed this gorge down; ricocheting wall to wall, delirious, small plumes of thrashed snow marking his descent.Through a freezing wood he fumbled. In a veil of mist he tumbled down a steep and verdant grade. As cold consumed his closing breath, he fell upon, near-blind, near death, a strange, enchanted glade.

There is a pool.And in this pool a man lay purged, his broken body half-submerged.The stumbling man stopped. He knelt to weep, but lost his thread. One hand took a bicep, the other, the head. With a twist and pull the corpse emerged.That visage…that face—misshapen mask, contorted, bleached; of life’s deposits fully leached. Essence dispatched—a void, sodden wretch.He let it fall and the glass was breached. All a freak, all a stretch: upon this act his grip detached.And the bridge collapsed…one vagabond grasp…what were these feelings; recaptured and trashed…a span elapsed…who was this puckered mass…he hauled it by the waist and thighs…slid it in, watched the pool react: purse and recover, expand, contract. The glass reformed, now silver-backed…a sudden mirror…the man leaned nearer…saw his reflection, just smashed, remade intact.The pool grew still.Within its depth a shadow stirred—visions gathered, some distinct, some obscure. What they meant, and who they were, was much too much to fathom. The glass became blurred.He closed his eyes, let his heavy head fall, fell back on his haunches, felt the sweat seep and crawl. The air was a pall—as he struggled to rise, a nib crossed his wrist.He opened his eyes.Between his fingers the blades poked and crept. Round his knuckles they ventured, up his forearm they stepped: they seemed to be triggered by prompts from the ground. He shook his head slowly and dully looked round.There were jays grouped about him, their black eyes aglow. Red hens came running, their fat chicks in tow. Gophers engaged in a weird hide-and-seek. Bluebells and buttercups craned for a peek. Sparrows hopped past and, paying no heed, burst into flight. He watched them recede.Westward they flew.Bewildered, he slumped.Bumped from behind, he jumped to his feet, flabbergasted to find an ancient gray moose near-eclipsing the sky, with grit in his snarl and fire in his eye.The old moose took aim.The man turned to flee and stumbled, then tumbled and fell on a palm and a knee.

But there lies a world (so the lullaby goes) where rivers ever run. Poked from behind, pushed out of his mind, he staggered into sun.

Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

Contact: ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com

Sorry about the ghastly copy. This system makes graceful formatting impossible.

My father walked me down the aisle,But my mother held my arm.He went with me, But we went not towards the altar,But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,And the ***** rang through the church,Humming through the elaborate crown molding,Carved by my ancestors.

He went,Not beside me,But before me,And I watched,As he was illuminated by the bright, Overbearing,Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,But I did not wear white.My father walked me in silence,And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,And no veil obscured my face.All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,Loudly,Unavoidably,And I carried her with one hand,My sister the other,And walked towards my future.A future family,Not one person more,But one person less.I walked,One final time,With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,And I will never forget it.Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,Blurred faces staring,Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,The anguished wails of my mother,The whimpering of my sister,And the wooden box that glided before us,Pulling,A string tied to our patriarch,The pin key of our family,Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,Before I had a chance to grow up.He walked me,Out of the church, Away from the altar,Never to be walked again.

Rifleman decal water is to Tiny basket liners as Strained yo-yo string is to?Dark wool glowing is to Oldest lost oddity as First genetic engine is to?Black quail taint is to Nut curdled paint as Hemp biscuit dominoes are to?Steam traced paper is to Lemon ash vapor as Digital ****** wig is to?Eccentric brine mimes are to Electric silk slacks as Spark formed lava is to?Sunchoked black hornets are to as Rescued orphan doves as Retold cat jokes are to?Hand traced videos are to Braided rubber spines as Opal rain dancers are to?Halogen anchor gong is to Annoying bread portraits as Soft bracelet lockers are to?Old troll bios are to Select cherub echoes as Broken matchstick parasols are to?Dome nine chariots are to Frayed lunar remnants as Fuming honey flasks are to? Bluing assault operas is to Beading fluted flowers as Magnetic lawn tweezers are to?Converted flea sponges are to Floating dog murals as Frozen Archie comics are to?Molded road pads are to Crusty gumdrop thread as Straw ribbed pelicans are to?Inflatable diamond vowel is to Single gender raffle as Groovy desert coffee is to?Temporary solution radiation is to Idiotic witness mumble as Motorized marshmallow kit is to?Panoramic utopian paranoia is to Aggravated **** silhouettes as Unhinged gun sellers are to?Homesick ghost pajamas is to Virtuous fly fungus as Royal sandpaper gloves are to?Gangster hayride tickets are to Deer milk Oreos as Turnip fairy maps are to?Glue gun **** is to Nocturnal cabin mice as Cab fare corn is to?Speckled fish nickels are to Under water bric-a-brac as Epic snakeskin paisley is to?******* bungalow pranks are to Drowsy vapid oafs as Quantized cavern fish are to?Raunchy snail kimono is to Coiled time dice as Smeared equator malt is to?Metallic centaur franchise is to Transparent cheese chess as Spotted glacial remnants is to?Sky fused pong is to Rustic mothers brattle as Granulated canister ointment is to?Overgrown maze mule is to Mated smugglers hugging as Floating thesaurus exam is to?Sliding coed sprinkler is to Soapy whitefish rebate as Precious lamb diaper is to?Mushy acorn luster is to Lilac protein rings as Slapstick wrestler dialect is to?Freaky plankton bells is to Rolling horse divorce as Morphing morphine lips are to?Sticky razor sparkle is to Emerald muscle spasm as Glaring cat cipher is to?Peppy unisex mustache is to Pelican fighter syndrome as Clumping night grumble is to?Scanning paired pearls are to Ruby rubbed roaches as Satanic sailor flotsam are to?Glowing asteroid solder is to Ideal shark data as Failed frail doilies are to?Numb nuts boredom is to Fantastic icy phantoms as Sporadic silk creations is to?Crooks crow chow is to Loading spackled bonder as Gargled snowdrop blasters are to?Outdid myself today is to Outside myself again as Outlived myself controls is to?Venting shuttlecock upset is to Texting badminton kitten as Settler tested motels are to?Prepare paired vents is to Prefer paid events as Pretender predicts fiction is toCrunchy mental fender is to Catching mentor menace as Poorly seasoned lettuce is to? Outside sidewalk inside is to Seaside outcast input as Sideways landslide victory is to? Compile fake password is to Compost world poo as Compose village anthem is to? Crooked crotch blunder is to Loud crowd thunder as Divine vine finder is to? Chucks’ wooden truck is to Bucks good luck as Sticky ducks tucked is to? Overhaul underway overseas is to Overturned downsized pickup as Underground onramp overloaded is to?I’ll bite there is to Aisle byte their as Isle bight there is to?Gnat gnawed wrist is to ***** show beans as See through putty is to? Flapping floppy guppies are to Buzzing zipped dozers as Muddy ****** strippers are to?Dark diagonal dialogue is to Diabolical dihedral die as Interesting circadian exposition is to? Experimental flossing expectations are to Waxed dental traps as Permanent impermanence resolution is to? Outran ringside intrigue is to Sidetracked onboard boatload as Loaded firearm topside is to?Phony ****** phone is to Chewy ego honey as Yogi Mama’s dada is to? Nimble teardrop squiggle is to Humble cage curtains as Loyal truckstop morals are to?Torching curled elastic is to Sonic neighbor clamor as Golden droplet integers are to?Duplex pupil scanners are to Nacreous cloud clocks as Shrouded flute shops are to?Lawn rocket tendrils are to Finding surreal borders as Sheep monarchs children is to? Gloating ungloved squires are to Busting double doubters as Pushing woeful doctors are to?Tricking snowbelt firedogs is to Panmixing blackened haywires as Unclothed shameful leaders are to?Malicious ranch ritual is to Internal puppet bubble as Ornate underworld masquerade is to?Rustic debonair Eskimos are to Mindless sassy elves as Gorgeous somber acrobats are to?Learned earthy pimps are to Fearless sneaky Queens as Somber gentle vagrants are to?Shocking horse wear is to Glossy sled fluid as Damaged chipmunk tongue is to?Traditional agony chart is to Damp voodoo motel as Backwoods museum quote is to?Magical cat cabin is to Dapper porpoise humor as Malicious graveyard foam is to? Therapeutic gazelle cushion is to Stored alibi equipment as Stunning tempo light is to?Fantastic rascal art is to Wasted prune dust as Jupiter’s ****** law is to?Little nut razor is to Gigantic hyena shield as Hourglass pillow fever is to?Coiled rain clouds are to Dizzy tycoon clowns as Lime eating cowards are to?Possessive epicurean demonstrators are to Faded eavesdropping giants as Determined swanky drunks are to?Aquatic preview pocket is to Soggy judicial topiary as Finicky hamster fabric is to?Enlarged fruit cuff is to Obedient mumbling orchestra as Dark tenant tariff is to?Recycled flash thermometer is to Botched temptation probe as Pet glider grid is to?Seriously shy idols are to Costly driving perfumes as Ferryboat chapel wine is to?Winged jalopy details are to Faithful spectral fathers as Sprinkled mint rainbows are to?Spelling unneeded words is to Sprouting donut ***** as Blaming mellow mallrats are to?Eroding loom keepsake is to Magnificent accordion canoe as ***** bongo fumes are to?Souring violet ink is to Juvenile insult park as Periodic ferret envy is to?Obedient boyfriend aroma is to Sanitized fat lozenges as Dramatic jailer garb is to?Mysterious patrol group is to Dynamic maiden discharge as Captured hurricane ratio is to?Lackadaisical bigot bingo is to Oblong care merchant as Expensive swamp shampoo is to?Petite orifice worship is to Atomic barge pet as Plucked hair exhibit is to?Elite officer wallop is to Automatic yard rake as Healing ****** glitter is to?Needless swan costume is to Giant jungle goat as Organic picnic napkin is to?Leaky jet steam is to Innovative fascist whistle as Enchanting idol evidence is to?Plastic mascara seduction is to Greasy thermal ointment as Attractive muskrat crease is to?Lucky camel pills are to White coral Torah as Eternal stage clutter is to?Roasted oat **** is to Sloppy *** glue as Nylon table debt is to?Steep nook catastrophe is to Empty dome damage as Pulsing breeze powder is to?Empty sack power is to Hitched buck stroke as Red claw warning is to?Ultra brief slogan is to Yummy lab mutant as Pathetic ball armor is to?Nauseating fish splatter is to Obstinate ****** twitch as Strained ***** coffee is to?Mezzanine intermission fossil is to Proven **** apathy as Golden duck shroud is to?Civil tutors torment is to Thor’s posted theory as Yellow melon rain is to?Immense olive raft is to Exploding kangaroo buffet as Ethereal witness index is to? Marching dark speeders are to Searing scribble fighters as **** tripping sinners are to?Seeping viral angst is to Aged hermit tea as Murky bowl nibble is to?Condensed blister guzzle is to Pink dorsal pie as Lavish speckled runt is to?Needy insult poet is to Sedated acorn trader as Dry honey zoo is to?Veiled trust flicker is to Deranged poser fashion as Flat sizzle tangent is to?Purified diet spray is to Nebulous wishing target as Thrilling screen dope is to?Majestic ribbon astronomy is to Bizarre formation sector as Rebel bell gimmick is to?Sealed dart whisper is to Green silk draft as Cold vacuum varnish is to?Clumsy raven power is to Insect island circus as Minted mink drapes are to?Curved map ruler is to Tiny lethal radio as Blue fused metal is to?Inverted laser invasion is to Damp sheep dump as Puffy gown smoke is to?Saucy Channel blazer is to Leather goat filament as Starched locomotive hat is to?Broken jumper leads are to Disgraced mini exorcists as Designer shamrock caulk is to?Tweaked poachers smokes are to Assorted sulfur pathways as Collected bedlamp trickle is to?******* bungalow pranks are to Drowsy vapid oafs as Quantized cavern fish are to?Crawling battle worms are to Vibrating metal pedals as Mentholated matrix wax is to?Missing meshed rafts are to Liquid rock pipes as Crinkled bean bikinis are to?Tithing **** joggers are to Perforated buck fronds as Leather zither picks are to?Fearing truthful cowards is to Rambling preachers mumble as Gazebo ambulance gasoline is to?Shelving elder’s whiskers is to Poaching goalies pesto as Radical tricycle angst is to?Mucky gunboat polymer is to Primeval maypole flameout as Cathedral greenhouse intercom is to?Diaphanous safety prize is to Unleashed saucer lion as Dorky blonde ropewalker is to?Tapered spring meter is to Silver silo mythology as Misguided judges medallions are to?Alligator x-ray money is to Cherry unicorn water as Coyote cactus toy is to?Cowardly dorm scrooge is to Atomized pewter script as Flattened spore smoothies are to?Trash can yodel is to Flashing wired spam as Exploding chocolate pudding is to?Sonar blasted bushings are to Threading ruined wheels as Forty shifting boxes are to?Tiny balloon rebellion is to Softened square cleanser as Iconic soul sucker is to?Harmony night light is to Spanish nitrogen desire as Squirrel cavern iodine is to?

Lazy winter secret is to Slow airport widget as Silly mustard binder is to?Elephants raising raisins are to Microscopic lamb planet as Purple hay puppets are to?Caribou venom vaccine is to Electronic lemonade choir as Demonic princess massage is to?Beet coated bridge is to Fattened needle point as Mylar monkey spine is to?Ashy ink dust is to Youngest rabbi planet as Orange cartoon geometry is to?Cold green chalk is to Cobalt ladder farce as ***** river filters are to?Sublime sheep master is to Sleeping past rapture as Subliminal bliss jelly is to? Ocean crust slippers are to Twigged germ radar as Popping sharpie scope is to? Zen wrapped beep is to Oak foamed code as Wicked flashing sizzle is to? Dew eyed sleigh is to Say I do as Act as me is to?Humpback on hammock is to Ham hocking hummer as Hunchback with knapsack is to? Corned flag jelly is to Draped wing chewers as Tripping swan acid is to? Futuristic Rembrandt chant is to Almond likened meadows as Asian timber blue is to? Nap in sack is to Flap on Jack as Ducks dig crack is to? Flowing flavored lava is to Gleaming optic layers as Enhanced goose gibberish is to? Flag tied pajamas are to Saline checker choir as Speed reading quotas is to?Whipped spam spasms are to Misted shaman scripture as Testing pitched bells is to? Cave aged eggs are to Crowded tiger cages as ****** wagon pegs are to?Pigeon towed car is to a Man toad art as Wolf whisker wish is to? Second hand clothes are to Minute hand gestures as Final hour prayer is to? Slick wicked shavers are to Tricky watch boxes as Sprouting pine tattoos are to? Waxed stick ravens are to Match stick foxes as Narrowed thermal towers are to? Ice cave rice is to Laced face lice as Gourmet pet **** is to?Diamond lane anniversary is to Space age appropriate as Time travel agency is to? Lime bark violin is to Lemon twig guitar as Lunar sky waffles are to? Fake rat **** is to Smart cake batter as Rugged fur tax is to? Tarred raft fluff is to Flaked rafter dust as Lined liquor flask is to?Flakes will fall is to Take Bills call as Broken maze compass is to?First faked voter is to Entombed cartoon honey as Smallest aching smurf is to?Fancy bared ******* are to Flaky fairy treats as Kings amp filter is to? Bone window folio is to Whittled fake pillow as Little fitted jackets are to? Nine nuts brittle is to Ate pear pie as Six packed poppers are to? Incandescent playground pencil is to Elastic hand worm as Perfumed piano ink is to? Opal shifting anode is to a Windup lion decoy as Pale paisley trolley is to? Stacked black boxes are to Old packed tracks as a Throwing micron hammers is to? Apricot bark furnace is to Merry Orchid Choir as an Ivory rinsing funnel is to? Narcotic honey nuts are to Slick flag toffees as Silk fig sugar is to? Orange coin raisins are to Low note candies as Smelling balled roses is to? Pocket packed monotints are to Tragic ladder hayracks as Ravishing speed traders are to? Crayon spider resin is to Coral squirrel forceps as Wolf tumbled loaf is to? Silver wheat flies are to Width shifting wheels as Golden blister blankets are to?Really tiny hippopotamus is to Masked fat podiatrist as a Sad sack psychiatrist is to?Miniature Mesopotamian monuments are to Apple minted elephants as Raising wise ravens is to?Lathered nymph nacre is to Sonic ion constellations as Concealed iron craft is to? Epic gene toy is to Ladies bubble sled as Jagged data bowl is to?Bugged dagger bag is to Pop sliced meld as Atom bending moonlight to? Rural madam’s deed is to Dyed dew dipper as Eight sprayed dukes are to? Jiffy grand puffer is to Floating altar myth as Vintage dark mirth is to?Undercover overnight underwear is to Overpaid undertaker overdosing as Overheard understudy freebasing is to?

Black grape crackle is to Red cactus ruffle as Installing padded pets are to?Snide snobs sniffing are to Sneaky snails snoring as Snared snipes sneezing are to?Exploring explosive exits is to Explaining expansive exports as Expecting expert exchange is to? Shrewd logic ledger is to Puppets dropping cupcakes as Placated topaz octopi are to?Door roof tools are to Cool wool boots as Wood cooked root is to?Bright fight light is to Night flight fright as Mites bite site is to?Floor flood fluid is to Wooden door Druid as Nasty **** broom is to?Accurate police photography is to Intelligent microbe geography as Condensed aerosol biography is to?Cowardly cowboy grime is to Corpulent corporate crime as Bosnian dwarf necromancer is to?Jell-O clearing shaker is to Brillo cleaning shiner as Cheerios bowling shields are to?Mumbled mindless hokey is to Fumbled found money as Humming kinder bunny is to?Daisy’s clock setter is to Lilly’s boxer toxin as Poodles rose paddle is to?Watch Bozo Copernicus is to Hire Clarabelle Newton as Find ***-wee Einstein is to?Amethyst thistle whistles is to Lapis pistol whip as Diamond bomb scar is to?Dandelion seahorse rescue is to Crabapple dogwood farm as Faux foxglove lover is to? Optical poppy stopper is to Polar halo lens as Day-Glo rainbow sticker is to?Savanna leopard spotted is to Eskimo lassos kisses as Alligator lemonade standard is to?Bill of Rights is to Will of left as Thrill of night is to?Baptize floozies quickly is to Useless outsized nozzles as Puzzled wizard wanders is to? Chaps wearing chaps are to Chaps contesting contests as Consoling concealed consoles is to?Quiet squirming squirrels are to Aeon beauty queens as Queasy greasy luaus is to?Knew new gnu is to Sense scents cents as We’ll wheal wheel is to?Blazing zingers ringing are to Wheezing singers flinging as Freezing finger number are to?Lamb tomb jogger is to Dumb numb **** as Thumbed crumb bug is to?

Blue accordion casket is to Jaded scholar ***** as German mushroom circus is to?President George Flintstone is to Funny Fred Washington as Abraham Jetson’s dog is to?Google Desmond Tutu is to Kalamazoo Zoo Park as Zodiac actors Guru is to?Swamp cradled whisperer is to Cherished drawbridge cello as Bludgeoned prankster outlaws are to?Dukes pink mittens are to Smeared nest carava

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample

February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles

Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.

January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

I still have flashbacks, horrifying and spectral: of conference meetings, projectors and efficiency meetings...corporate metrics, acronymic value cards that read like a Masonic Temple's pledge.. ...honesty, commitment, sacrifice, the dutiful worship of mercury and saltpeter; also customer satisfaction. Those flashbacks frequent my mind alot--especially when I am ramming my co-workers into the trash compactor with the blades of the fork truck. They say " ooooh" and " ahhhhh" as if they are getting a massage. They dull my blades with their dull heads. I have to ram them with the blades of the fork-trucks, or they will scramble out. They still say things like, " make sure that has a tag,".....and " wear your safety goggles," making chills run down my spine. I haven't put all the workers from the " Do-Wee depot" in the compactor only corporate cadavers and not zombies. But I have to forewarn, the zombies are not a threat, it is a few cadavers and the "consumers" that pose a threat to me and what I have built. The zombies are producers, even only if it is moans and putrefaction, but they are good sports, and my only friends. Some co-workers, who I was friends with before, I have spared from the compactor--owing mostly to that the part of their brain that was corporate, either fell out on the floor, or was gnawed on by a fellow zombie rendering them good sports and not cadavers. I use the building material section to chain them to their previous aisles. Jose, was my best friend, he was shaped like a slug, with a huge lower lip, and slicked back greasy hair, he always cheered me up, how busy it was and how slow he remained. Him and I worked together in the ' outside-lawn-and-garden' section. Even his zombie self has kept his lisp. I chain him to the outside lawn and garden section, where he likes to water the flowers. He lunges at me sometimes, but the chain is thick, and Jose is still a cool zombie. Angry Joe is out there too. He is chained to the 'reach' truck. He is always mumbling about overtime.....or " Im not staying late." I have disabled the riding engine, so he just stands on it and runs the fork blades all the way up then all the way down, beeping the horn the whole while. He is the only one I kept, that has some vestige of corporacy in his brain, for the reason that he watches the back gate. The consumers are constantly probing this outside metal fence gate, and Joe has eaten all of them. Don't get me wrong, Joe can be a good sport, when he is not drooling about 'overtime' or ' I havn't took a lunch yet.' He can be quite funny. He banters with Ryan from inside 'lawn-and-garden' all the time. Ryan is alot younger, alittle younger than me. He has a mullet(what I call a mullet and he say's a hockey cut) and verily is--before he become a zombie-- the laziest person ever, and now that he is a zombie, well let's just say, I don't have to chain him anywhere, I know where to find him.....at the back gate smoking a ciqerette backwards with his mullet on fire or in the break room. He had the most squeeky voice when he was a human, but now odd fully enough, he sounds like Tom Jones. " You ate my cosumer Ryan," drools Angry Joe, " No I didn't Joe, you ate your own consumer," Ryan rejoins in his acapella voice ( I like hearing Ryan's deep zombie voice). There are others, in the various departments of the Do-Wee Store, but this journal is to relate the first most pressing concern, two cadavers have escaped the compactor. The store manager Joyce and her minion(the assistant manager Damien) have escaped. They were ******* humans, and remained so in corporate cadaver form. They hide from me, as I plow through the aisles with the inside forklift. I have used wire from the fencing aisle to reinforce my forklifts. Sometimes a cadaver co-worker will jump out with a price gun, drooling " where is your spootterrrr...."( a safety regulation in the store).....I run them over with great gladness, but then wishing I heeded their advice of safety glasses."Splat." I have my theories, on how everyone turned to zombies. It started with over-ocurring routine, which my a.d.d could have been impervious to. But I couldn't have been the only one in the store with a.d.d? But that seems the case. The first day when I showed up to ' outside-lawn-and-garden' it took me six hours before I noticed everyone was zombies. I didn't notice they were zombies until I noticed them in good spirits. But the first day of the zombies, was concurrent with the rise of the consumers--ever more dangerous, greedy, and audacious are the consumers. They consume everything in their path, they consume good conversation, good manners, and replace with their mark, which is this....your life with the current moment is to be sacrificed to get them what they need to continue resuming their lives. They do not enjoy shopping, but enjoy holding you in place, consuming you and your values into their value, which has no value at all, since their mind has consigned the present moment that has you and not them, to a number that always has too much value, and they will bring you and it down while you are subject to time and they are not. They turned my friends into prisoners of arbitrary time; and like putting a rabbit in a dank dark basement, with plenty of food and treats and space, it will slowly get diarrhea and die. Everyday I marked the sunrise, and I would always pay thanks to it, no matter if I was on break or not. The nine hour day could not ruin me, but my friends being ruined, that started to ruin me. And that is what I believed started all this, nature has no room for two kingdoms of Consumers. So the producers(zombies) were created from the routine of being divested of life, and from nothing they came to produce: producing gases, vile ****** smiles, human cannibalism, hearty conversation, practical jokes, moaning questions to the infinite sky.... they were created human again, given value, and most of all, I have my friends back, and they are happy again. But, the corporate cadavers that escaped the compactor , put my creation in risk, they look to let in the consumers again, they are up to something... But presently with the corporate cadavers gone, and the consumers held at bay, I have my Depot of Eden, I can grow anything, make anything, and soon will be able to ferment everything, especially fuel. Now monday morning conferences that threaten you to pick it up because there are alot of people out there that want your job( iterated by the frizzy headed gangly Joyce) are replaced with 'zombie dance parties'. " Zombies, what is the first rule of zombie dance party," they reply to me, " dohmp talk bout damp party," then we make a music video. I let loose a couple of cat's in the break room, and presto, an agile cat make's flesh eating zombies look like Micheal Jackson. Even I get busy with them, I feel so comfortable with them; dancing to Juvenile "back that *** up,".the best dancer gets to eat the cat...sure beat's listening Joyce's depressing morning pep talks about quotas while I am watching a bird outside the front glass trying to eat a dragonfly, " Keith you paying attention." I just want to say, " No I am not you frizzy headed gangly walking skeleton key(she is skinnier than the gang of keys jingling on her belt)." I will find her and put a roofing nail in her temple and her plans. The sound of zombies walking in here is music to my ears, like gypsys walking barefoot on a strawberry patch. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I like it, and don't care who knows.

I fortified the outside of the store with everything within the store. I grew a garden, with all the fertilizers, and acids and alkilines of outside garden. I also use the garden chemicals to sprinkle on the brains of my co-worker zombies to change their acidity(almost like a hyrdrangea shrub). The purpose to get them somewhat coherent to play poker and darts in the breakroom. I figured out how to make explosives, with the nitrogen fertilizer and pool cleaning acid, well actually HeyZues did, he always eats both, and one day he moaned really loud " BLOOOONDEEE " ( his nickname for me from The Good The Bad And The Ugly) and gestured his expanding stomach, he blew up and gave me my first wound, he destroyed my dart board. I took his head and posted it on the back loading dock, I know there are consumers trying to infiltrate when he sounds off with " BLOOONDEEEE..." resounding through the whole store (almost like when he was a human). I created another dartboard, I can create anything here, sometimes I think, that feeling is what........ But the point of this journal is the two who escaped the trash compactor, Joyce and Damien. They haunted me before and haunt me still. When I leave to venture outside for gasoline for the generators(the only thing I need, not for long hopefully) they run amok. I will see new ' sale signs' in zombie penmanship, and I can see that they have hidden co-workers to have cadaver meetings, where they talk about ' customer satisfaction.' I can sometimes hear keys jangle, it has to be Joyce, for the sound is to the cadence of her John Wayne walk, like she has been on horseback her whole life. Outside is very dangerous. There are many consumers out there. I was outisde in the parking lot, where consumers still wallow around when a consumer asked "which product is better." I had to drop a cinder block pallet on him with the forklift; they are more adacious then my zombie co-workers. Even after a pallet of concrete is forklifted on them, they wave fliers with sale advertisments from underneath. Well, this particular trip, I returned inside and was startled by the loudspeaker, it was Damien's voice, the same as before, paging the hardware department. I jumped on the fast slim forklift to hunt for him. There are phone terminals everywhere, and he could be in the upper level offices. I saw Joyce's shape through the window once. They are up to something. Everytime I ventured outside, the store became altered. I even saw a consumer waiting in line with the cashier machine now on. I sent the consumer to Angry Joe, who was due for a lunch break. There is a gap in my wire somewhere, I know it. I was at the gas station, getting propane and gas, when a consumer was scowling " where is the gas attendant, is everyone stupid or what?" while he was trying to figure out how to pump gas. I disabled the safety pumps, they do not shut off, and do not coincide with numbers, you hold the handle it pumps out as much as you need. He was pacing around like a little kid denied recess and suffering from sounds of frolic and kickball--dragging his feet due to the fact he had to pump his own gas, I heard a scraping metallic clicking noise. My eyes were caught by a bright glare on his shoe tread, I gripped my nail gun..... then he dropped the hose and walked back to his car with gasoline gushing as his wake. I saw what it was on his tread, I had no time to flee....it was a push button grill ignitor with the orange tint of a " Do-Wee" label on it......" ****." The last thing I registered was the consumer saying " ahhh don't touch me," apparently talking to flames. I woke up in a ditch, the big fork truck and my gas station destroyed. I limped back to the " Do-Wee" store, and utter horror greeted my singed and surprised eyebrows. " Grand Re-Opening, 50% off everything." I squeezed the trigger of the nail gun, the nail harmlessly echoed off the parking pavement at which it was aimed. "They set me up at the gas station. " They had to do better than that to separate me from my zombies.

I entered through the store in a nun-plussed state. I woke out of my unbelieving stupor with the sound of Jose's voice. " Welcome to Doooooo-Weeee....can I eat your...." "Jose it's me, who chained you to the entrance?" " Dammian, Keeeeeth, they are waiiiting....here's a newsletter...." --he smacked me across the face with the newsletter. " I don't want that ****.....' as I clutched the newspaper the loudspeaker went off in Dammians annoyingly over-polite and late-night-voice. " Attention shoooppers. all prices are feeeefty percent off, ask our associate Keeeeeth for a 80% discount, he is the skinny deleeecious looking kid with spicy skin, and a boston red sox hat on." Hundreds of consumers pivoted their heads to my direction. " Hey, that kid has a Boston Yankees hat on." " Run Keeeth," zombie-lisped Jose. Fifty million imbecilic questions assailed me at once......" can I return this sprinkler for a jacuzzi.....can I get 120% off.....can you come to my house and fix my television for free"-- it was unabashed audacity, survial of the most annoying and repetitious; and the corporate cadavers have let this consuming flood in on me and my poor zombies. I needed to find my steed, my inside forklift. It was not where I left it near the entrance. Surely they have sabotaged it. " the riding mowers," the thought uplifted my fading resolve. I darted past wallowing consumers before they could get my scent. I heard a consumer, " you obviously don't know what Im talking about," talking to zombie George, who was munching roofing nails. The consumer grabbed me, and said "here he is, this is Keith, he is wearing a Phoenix red sox cap"--panic bit into my brain, this consumers grip was implaccable. The grip that holds the steering wheel tightly driving nowhere fast, with anything in that interstice of commuting, not worthy of manners and the least of which being a friendly wave to 'go ahead.' They formed a wall of uttering stupidity, escape was cut off. They scratched at me, hissed, tore at my flesh and screamed demonistically in my ears. I caved and and called the hoard m'am and sir, they choked me, and loosened their grip only so I could tell them " Im sorry, sorry for your inconvenience, take my life and personality as tribute, take my imagination rendered prostrate by these sceptic corporate words that this mouth emits, betraying my personal form, the human element to this lifeless purposeless machine....destroy me, for finding the infinity between letters of corporate law and none between nature's laws......" I was almost unconscious, giving a speech to imagined hooded phantoms......" destroy me, for valuing friendship and imagination, and seeing infinity, in the shadow of a letter, eternity in the numeral of a number, and for defying the order to see things as others do....."...." destroy me, for seeing that people are unhappy and trying to uplift people for the sake of seeing them smile....destroy me, destroy my smirk, and add a lifeless smile to my corpse." I heard a horn, the riding floor mopper/buffer, it was Ryan, he commandeered the machine with precision-like drunkenness. He knocked down the consumers like twenty pin bowling. " What's up ***** cat," he possibly said, and I climbed to my feet. I walked to the riding mowers, and turned the key on the floor model. I sped the main aisle, with caresses of consumers that would be deep clawings at a slower speed. I dodged stupid question, and swerved from unabashed frugality. I turned up the tool aisle, grabbed a battery nail gun. " It says batteries are included, but are they included?" I answered with a 12 gauge nail, and resumed my course to the upper offices, that for too long looked down on me and my friends. I climbed the stairs and entered. The office was abuzz in corporate banalities. " Hello, this is Damian how may I help you.....oh helloooooo keeeeeth, one minute.......sir hold one second thaaaanx." I aimed the nail gun muzzle at his ugly overly polite mug." I finally found you, I will get the store back in shape Damian...." He cut me off, " no yoou woonn't, they are pouring in, we will meet our quota for the year...." " Me and my friends

Sailing in a dhow at sunset after snorkeling off Mafia island, Tanzania.'SPILLAGEThe tree’s don’t sleep at nightthey photosynthesize , by moonlight.Leaves drink in the cool wise lightAnd give off dreams of softly fading starlight

Whispers of secrets , monthly unfurlA single blossom falls at new moonHurtling to the ground, awake before noonEver noticed? The very word has the circleCurled up in the centre , twice to make sure we remember , two full cups , not one.

Geko’s slip off old skinsAnd the croaking frog adds to the dinAs thunder rolls inTriggering the dogs barkGuardian of the stark naked coupleAsleep in their parallel worldsTogether under the umbrella of ambient lightingNot the natural kind eitherBut a shameless copy of pure sunlightThat emenates when their bodies collideOn the material plane.

Astral visions lead the way to headquartersThe address? Fax? Phone number?I’m afraid you’ll have to dial again ,Unless you’ve meditated on the vibration of emancipationThen you would already know, you are already thereDoors are open , for those who care to tryNo lock on this baby ,Ain’t no safe to play safeWe bask in our humble gloryUnder the shores on undulating tidesRhythmic pulsationsno where to hideThe emanations come from within,Without , a shadow of a doubt

There is a war coming , infact we’ve already been fighting for decadesJust like the change of winds, nature knows her stuffTip the seeds too soon and you’ll end up with a field full of fluffBut just in time and a harvest with enough to reduce every super market shelf to dustEven though they already stock that kinda stuffClean up on Aisle 4, Aisle 3 , Aisle 2 , Aisle 1Return the purchase , we’ve discovered the ****In the cakeAnd we found the frog in the salad,At least their habitat is intactOr did you think I was still talking about the shops?

Ok , I’ll change tactChange of pace.No , no I will not join the Human RaceRunning to where? Why all the running?From what? To where? From whom , to whom it seems like we run straight to our tombs, without a second glance at perhaps the chance that legs can walk…Wanna know where I’d rather be?

I want to be on a motorbike heading 70 miles an hour down empty roadsAn island paradise , holding the hips of my dearestTo arrive at another home ,where our friends relax to the forlorne strums of the bluesTripping on love we depart ,not without slightly heavy heartsPeace , friends we’ll see you anon.

Pull into the golden arches , I tell myself ‘I can’t kiss those lips now they’ve touched that burger’then I remember you’ve been working all daybefore you came out to play , I wasn’t up for a dance I was too entranced in my own madnessBut. Always the **** , walk up those stairs for me, softly you moan.I agree in a semi tone. Secrets are meant to be shared,we quietly told each other of love in the parking lot at 4 am. The pain in your eyes still wakes me up in the middle of thunderstorms.

Awoken to sorrows from the motherland, monsters creep to the door,peep in the keyhole.Oh,I forget,your door is activated by credit card numbers that spiral from lips of z-list celebrities.So we’ll waste away the morning in each other arms,you watch me as I dress. No underwear no less. Put on your bra properly, suddenly you get kinda frosty.Not far from where we sat to have a Japanese lunch , pretty close to where I walked to meet you for tea , where you held my feet and handed me a phone I left in your brothers car.Well that’s where we have breakfast coffee and papaya whilst tourists ogle at the dog guard.Deaf to our calls , luxuriously taking his time. He didn’t find the secret beach either.Although the sea was good for a float, and to hear the space journey’s musical manifestationat every crash of every wave, the magnetic pull playing her crooked beat as she bypasses our feet.Then, there are two nights with two Amsterdam gals , one smoked lucky strikes and had scars across her wrists , the other photographed trees for a living.Both blonde , both fair , both with their own flair.

Expect the unexpected , beach raves full of people I don’t really want to be with , so we get tequila shots insteadand stand outside a shop selling knock off clothes when the bar needs to shut.

She took a break to the bathroom , we finally let out the kisses we’d been holding in all night, until she got back.

Who said we couldn’t control ourselves? Although to be fair, I could feel you reaching for me wayyy back.

Why should we be selfish? Why shouldn’t we? I still went home with you that night, there really was no two ways about it.I had *** with you, slightly drunken ***, that was by no means gentle, by no means candle lit , by no means rose petals laid out on the bed, infact , if my memory holds true, there were no flowers apart from the ones on my dress.I’d say you were lucky , but then I cried at home.So much pent up emotion in that one act.Enough to propel us in into another night and untold eons beyond, I’m skipping ahead now,Where we drank red wine on the shoreline , I used the staff bathroom and noticed all the things that could be improved – seemed like work was wearing off on me.Still, the best part was yet to come, yeah the *** was fun but nothing compared to the games we played. Dress up and salsa ,mysterious templesnatures tickles leading to giggles at the foolish endevours of two ***** humans., smoke a spliff , enough to unwind the mind to a new point of time. A flash of something I’ve never seen before, nor have yet to be graced with again.I guess that was divine. Well, wouldn’t you say….It was about time.

So , am I still talking about the shops?Or who wore what with kate moss?No disrespectshe’s adept at her art but i don’t wanna read about boring old fartsLets hear about the underground collective of conscious minds who are rewinding the clock , who won’t stop ,warriors.

Well quite frankly

How long have we sat , year after year to be told the same **** and bull story.. my ears, my ears! MY EARS!!! They yearn for the sweet serenade of the truth

behind the crumbling arcade of rigged lottery tickets and games of black jack where the house always wins.Fortunately we’ve been coming since we were five , we know the cards without seeing the faces, we hold all the jacks and aces, we’ve got time on our side

So…that’s why they are running , finding places to hide.

We’d only be stealing from the house to give to the houseless…With the tools the house gifted to us…doesn’t it seem ironic?

I laughed until I cried the day I discovered the universe had a sense of humor. A dark , ironic , sarcastic tone that involves a major chord. Maybe a G or a D.

For some reason , my first poem i ever posted here i cut shorti felt that the whole poem was too close i thought i lost it on my old laptopbut seemingly here it is...

I am Private and he is mine. I see him follow in the feet of the other men when his white eyes are turned so is his face he sits in an aisle behind a glass too straight I call to him but the glass is too thick I am he and he is I so how can the separation be stopped my heart is pattering and he sees it a small bird wakes in the nest eyes open the cold salt

It is all over yet only to those who remember there is always the now if the then was kept forgotten the then is me and he is the now the others stand around us with long hair one has white eyes and skin too cool he is dead and standingmost stand in lines straight on forever some turn around in small shuffles some glance over one shoulder slowly those most eat and drink and eat and drink and eat and drink there is nothing to eat no space to turn and no features to see we look and move and eat to go the one with the white eyes and the skin too cool knows but cannot die fully he first scared me and now he is herewe are here and there he and I the one with the skin too cool too the small bird cries out on the edge of the nest as the wind whips around it cannot fall so alone we cannot see it fall there is no space and nothing to eat the white eyes drift away with no movement they seem to be searching

We sit now although surrounded there is no one around the glass is too thick I can hear the thoughts of the others and he can hear their actions the walls seem to go on forever forever blocking the light his light the whites of his eyes signaling recognition and reflection the light allows his sight to see me through the glass he is mine he is not dead I am he the cold salt the pattering heart holds me still and devours me I am not dead take that heart away from me so I do not wrench it from you the others look on and see nothing for there is nothing it is only in my pattering heart the bird sees something on the ground in the shape of a open heart the bird falls to the other the cold salt

Before I felt him I tried to save him but the glass was too thick the aisle was too crowded before and now it is too everyone dressed in their best black but wearing nothing of meaning they are the same the others I patter at the one sided glass he cannot hear me the darkness of the shadow hides me from him the shadow of the cross deafens him to the birds song I am he and I cannot hear me I pray for the book under the aisle to be true I pray he will see me soon I pray my prayers are needless he wants his pattering heart I want the cold salt on the cheeks of the best black dressed the bird has no cold salt left the fall took them away the heart shaped ground stopped the cold salt foreverbefore the men and the women were together and now they are the same the one man with the white eyes moves closer I like his skin too cool the buildings mixed and separated them together was complicated together and alone was complex he is large yet there is space for me when he is I cannot be touched no one knows he is dead and I am alive they do not remember that small bird feels another the cold salt and skin too cool

I am still alone but with him alive here is where I can see him this place too small is where I wait I saw him in the rain and fell to him the bird fell to the pattering heart he is still down there his skin too cool and his eyes too white I want those eyes they smile up at me through the lighted glass even the skin too cool reaches me and I am fed there is no food but his skin there is no sight but his eyes he is the smile I am the happiness I am him the bird smiled on the way to the heart shaped ground it hit the ground and the cold salt stopped the cold saltthe ground hits the pattering of my heart beats all the louder against his one sided glass now illuminated the light warms his heart and cold salt it patters in time with the rain harder and harder like the ground the bird hits over and over until his patters with mine he is me he is mine his cold salt I miss those I lose them to rain down on him and he feels their sound he is not the smile now I feel his heart pattering mine patters the hardest against his glass too thick and too straight now lit in this room too small surrounded by the others but without him I am alone I am his happiness I want his skin too cool and eyes too white I am his smile the cold salt and the skin and the eyes and the smile are mehe was lost to me one too many times my not dead man was kept hidden behind a glass too thick and too straight I cannot see what is hidden even though I am hiding the others sway now there is no room in here to move the ground is gone the small bird sings he is mine he looked up when I first pattered on the glass he saw nothing he was not going to then without the light now the cold salt illuminates the pattering heart his cold salt

I am sitting at the top of a building in the rain the rain falls just as the bird and my heart the ground fast approaches a glass too straight through which I see him he is alone in his room the one with the skin too cool his heart now pattering through his wrists it falls and patters like mine did and does for him here I want my skin too coolthe best dressed do not want to really see him they do not want to see me so they remember I am in a room too small wanting his skin too coolthe others with the long hair carry ropes in their hands or a gun or a bottle we are all in a room together but cannot fit there is no room there is no light the aisle is now empty and the glass is still too thick I am he I walk the cold salt drops I am not dead until we are all dead he is dead the room was too small and could fit no one the small bird loved his skin too cool the man sees the small bird jump for him I am the bird I am the man he is me he is mine I have his skin too cool and now pattering heart I am here the cold salt falls now with his smile and my happiness

Private, he my friend. He mine. See. He come back to me even now. I don’t have to tell him anything, he knows. They all looked at me, but to him I say nothing, nothing needs to be said. He reached safety and came back for me. His love penetrated, and now mine patters even more. I cried cold tears when I saw him fall. They never left my cheeks and he dried them. I see him in my room and play with him like all friends. The church glass was the last place I saw him. Wet with rain from my tears he was a bird, broken and small. Sundays were hard for him and me. I had love for him in the pattering of my heart. I tell him that over and over now, and he understands. He my friend. The one I only have tears for anymore, even after the rainy day took them from me; after his body reminded me of the small bird on the ground under the nests. He did not come back to the school or to his home, but to me. I am his pattering heart, only fully opened now. I don’t have to explain that the men and priest made me into this. They took my love and warred against it. They told me to feel this and not that. Love was red and boys were blue. Now I know why the stained glass which separated me and him was all colors. Now I’ll be on the lookout. I tell Private what a new winter this shall be, another one to warm my cool skin. We’ll be warm together, Private. Private. I don’t remember the verses of the Lord. The black book under the pews, those hated aisles, have no rememory to me. All is he, and he is mine. We would be one again, you tell me in my room late at night. Private came back to me by falling, like the baby birds on the farm under the nests too high. You warm my skin and catch my tears. You got close and I am now. When you fell I wanted to lay with you and now I can. My pattering heart and its contents now flow freely from the arms longing to hold you again. I am close. I should have been close then. I wanted to. Nowhere I had lain in peace since the rain and the fall. Now I can lie like the birds and their young. He come back to me, Private, my friend, and he is mine.

Let me dispel now the allegations that will surely follow: this is a piece written in the poetic form of Toni Morrison from her novel "Beloved" and is in no way meant to plagiarize, but rather to build on the genius of her work.

Tradition says that the role of walking your daughter down the aisle to her new husband is the act of giving her away to a man who will pick up where you left off in the mission of protecting her. But the day you gave me away, I wasn’t wearing a long white dress and there wasn’t a man waiting for me at the altar. You gave me away to the world the day you told me that you needed a break as if our relationship was one that you could just flip a light switch on and off,But I’ve been in the dark for far too long. You snapped my spine in half the day you said that I didn’t show love or respect towards you. But how do you model a behavior that you’ve never been shown?Five years, I tried to make our strained relationship work, for five years, I forgave you for throwing me aside andTime and time again I tried to love you only to have you show me all the reasons for why I couldn’t. We would never have the type of father daughter relationship that was described in fairytales or in movies.You gave me away that day like I was food leftover on a plate of an entrée you were no longer hungry for.You threw me out, sink or swim into a world full of male potentials,And I drowned. I was too worried about finding someone to rescue me from the flowing current and I had forgotten how to tread water.Years of swimming lessons and I was still reaching for a life preserver. But I’ve been lost in the sea of men too long.Being daddy’s little girl is more than just an expression, more than just a role to fill as a daughter.Being daddy’s little girl means that he wants you too.Being daddy’s little girl means that we’ll walk down an aisle in between the guests at the wedding and you’ll give me away to my new husband who’ll vow his love for me:For better or for worse, for rich or for poorer, in sickness and in healthUnlike yourself, where you pushed me away long before we’d reached worse.You let me go like a balloon on a string without an anchor to hold me down,Watching me float away without a care in the world as to where I ended up at, whose arms I fell into because I thought he’d take care of me like you were supposed to be doing.You gave me away as I was just a little girl and I was without the slightest clue of what to look for when trying to find someone to take care of me.I wanted you to take care of me.I’d learned from you that distance was far better than being close to someone,But it didn’t soften the blow when you gave me away.When I was a little girl, I dreamed of you meeting my new dates and threatening to break their neck if they broke my heart but I can’t help but wonderWhy isn’t your neck shattered? You took my heart out of my chest and crumpled it like a piece of paper before stomping it into the ground the day you gave me away.I knew what a broken heart felt like before my first boyfriend did the same.You left me cut wide open from the wound and I’ve yet to heal.A hole inside me aches for a love that only a father can give,The abyss within pains my chest with a void too easy to remember its presence.And I’ve tried filling it with romantic relationships that meant nothing and guys who only wanted to fill such a space for one night. You gave me away to the world of males I thought I needed in my life when I only needed you.But you’d never know that because you gave me awayLike giving away spare change on the floorboards of your truck to a homeless person and I’m not sure if I’m the coins or if I’m the person in need of a home.You gave me away the day you married the woman who took my spot and she became the most important girl in your life.

Sphincter factor nine approachesfood for the fish n roachesmethinks its time for me perhapsto open up the rearward *****.

------------------------------------AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,you sure don't keep your nose real clean.got stalactites o' pure pea greenmy infectious sibling snot machine.----------------------------------------I thought that I might shoot the breezewith God or Mephistophelesand ask them please to ease my wheezeof my bad back and dodgy knees---------------------------Croak with the ravenbluff with the crowthe urchin the field mousebeneath the hedgerowin a flurry they scurryaway away go.Yelp with the *****howl with the houndand bay at the moontill the sun comes around.------------------------------------------Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchusdoles out befuddlement and Morpheus has his way,lest I awake to find myself in the company ofsodamistic bedfellowswith buggery in mind.---------------------------------Harry Potter has grown a beardhe lives alone and turned out weird.Dumbledore, Albus, no moreturned his toes and 'ad a snore,Voldemort, who's *** is tauthas no nose with which to snort.====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,then Daisies for two and a bit rows.with Poppy, and *****Petunia, Primrose.and Bryony - who gets up- my nose.----------------------------------------------Amen.God bless the Cows - for beef burgers. God bless the Pig - for their bacon.God bless the wife n her sharp knifefor the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------We can, no more fetter the sea to the shorenor the clouds to the sky or tether the glintin a lovers eye, As sure the shore loves the seaso shall I love thee, together,together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for theesweet chevin,the cane thats cleavedby three,wilt thou nowsweet chevinyield, my friend , for me.-------------------------------------------------There's Marmalade then Marmiteand Jams thats jammed betweenthe buttered bread of bard-dom a poets sweet cuisine. ---------------------------------------------I took up campanology and fired up my ****.I rang that bell to ******* helltill the busiescame along.--------------------------------------------so, I've been whittling away at a buoyant ****-fashioned something approximating a poo canoe- in it, I intend tosurf the **** tsunami of old ageto-- death; I have named it Public - Service - Pension.

----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.she's my pimple, my wart,my gumboil consort.she's the zip, in whichmy *******, got caught.--------------------------------------Frayed at the bottomsripped at the knee.baggy and saggybig enough for three.faded and jadedand stained with ***but I'm due for a new pair--Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my earand he bills and coo's for youwhenever you are neargoes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skinin the blue twang of youth and to un-crack the spineon the book of love.now the gulping yearshave flown awaywe take sips of the nightand are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,a big deer- rather queer- I fear.then God gave him the nod to look funny and oddthe spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nosea great big nose has he,and nobby knowsthat his big nose,is big, as big can be,nobby has two knobbly kneestwo knobbly knees has he,his knobbly knees,are as knobelyas knobbly knees can be,don’t pity dear old nobby for soon it’s plain to see,that nobby has a great big ****as big, as big as three !now nobbys **** is knobly,as knobly as a **** can be,so nose and knee and ****make three,and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,had reeaally, reeaally big feet,her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brigand her **** were as hard as concrete….

--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crowsafore the snow-they caw,hey, get your **** into gear lads-we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within your housewherein on pew, I spied a mouse,and in his hand, a Bible clasped,and out his mouth, a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she hada pigeon loft inher eyes andbluebells up her nose.

But then againI wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,have all been eaten by my brother,snaffled up n swallowed downthen jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.so would you care to buy our house?from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyesand the Worms got her gut.comes as no surprise death can't keep her mouth shut.

Been whittling away at a buoyant **** and fashioned something approximating a canoe, in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age; I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.Well, I could wax on the wings of a butterflybut, I ain't that kind o' guy.rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.I'm the stuff that flops off dog chopswhen he's up for it and high.an infection in your sphincter,a well that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet is my ladies bonnet,jauntily askew and -lilting on a paramoursgrin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma sported a goatee around his **** sphincter, now, whilst this is merely educated speculation from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! who was in fact required to wear a mask, ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business, He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,, and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool" as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole where hair and gum gunk meet'erman the germ-man and toe jambop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as factthat I have a blocked digestive tract,I'm all bunged up and cannot gomy trump and pump is - somewhat slow.I need unction jollop for junction wallopsome sorta lotion to give me motion.If you could please just ease my wheezethen I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticksand sparking Godly clogspulling tongues through narrowed lipsat the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society I can confirm without fear of contradiction that poetry is indeed baggy underwearwith ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme and takes into account the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness that is the want of a ****** up poet.

I'll have thee know thatthat there hatis a magic hat,it renders me invisible to the arty intelligentsiaand roots me firmlyin the lumpen proletariat .-------------------------------------------------------Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.if the pension, you wish to partake,bend over my son, lets get this thing doneand cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert, down at Asda, in aisle three;he got there in a Mazda, jus' a smidgen after me,said he'd traversed Sainsburys, Tesco Liddle n the Spar,but not one o' them flogged Caviar Truffles or Foie gras.

He sidled past the pork pies streaky bacon turkey thighsa headin for the french fries n forsaken knock down buys,shimmied 'round the ankle biters; expectant mums to be,popin pills for bloated ills in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue, a ribbon microphone manmired in the dust of the monochromatic,the basement, the attic.

The retainer where she was putWas made of concrete. My father told me they had Dug the grave first, then poured the concrete in, waited forIt to dry and harden, then hammered in sixCircular spikes in the four corners, two on either sideOf the middle. They lifted the concrete cast out with a crane.My dad was going to be charged 300 dollars a day for the rental,But because of the circumstances, Home Depot let us have it for free.

-

Where was she?Where had she gone?Would I see her face again?Would she want me toMeet her on the other side of the river?

-

I answered my cell phone.

"Make sure to bring flower's."She had been crying. Her voice wavered the way sun lightDoes on moving water.

"Make sure to bring flowers," she repeated, "AndThat you wear what your father and I bought you."

I nodded my head with the receiver pressed up against my ear. We both let out a sigh. My mom hung up. I put my phone in my back pocket.

-

Lately, I had been seeing a shrink about repetition. He liked to use the word cycle.

"Everything is repeated," I would tell him.

"Life is a cycle," he'd disagree so to get me talking.

"Can cycles be identical?"

"Technically not. Some cycles are extremely similar, but no two cycles areCompletely the same. Are two people's lives ever exactly the same?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't know that many people. Maybe."

"You know lots of people, Camden. You have told me about many of your friends."

"Are we talking about the seasons?" I asked, changing the subject, "Like fall, winter, spring, summer? We are born, we live, we die, and we are born again?"

"That's a very natural way of looking at it."

"I know it is." I inhaled deeply, swallowing air and wondered what time it was.

"If you are so sure, why look for validation from me?" He liked this one, I could tell. I imagined him shopping for clothes and then exploding in aisle 16 because of a sale on jeans.

"The word cycle is used by people too afraid to use the word repetition. Everything is Repeated for the next generation, the next group, the next of the next of the next. We shift thingsAround, give things to one another to shift life to make it look different, but, things remain the same. Everything contains the primal function we were all doing and living from the very beginning, only now, there is more of a separation. Music is still music, words are still words, paintings are still paintings, love is still love, death is still death, only done differently and more intensely."

"We are talking about man furthering technology because we, as people and creatures, are Statistically more prone to flee than fight?"

"Why do you think it has caught on so quick?" I touched bothCorners of my lips with my tongue and suddenly realized I hadn't eaten breakfast.

"It is a theory," the psych nodded, "A theory with, I am sure, many Palpable facts you could make a very nice report with to prove...something." HeWas at a lost for words and I felt guilty that my mom was paying him $75 an hour.

"We are very split. There are too many of us. Too many hands spinning the china."

"Who is we Harry?" The psych hadn't looked up from his pen and pad of paper, until now. I couldTell he was annoyed with me either because he was making no progress or because the sessionHad just begun and I was already digging into him.

"Culture. The government. You, me, my dad, my mom, the taco bell cashier, the geniuses at Apple computers, a paper weight, my dead sister. We're all apart of these shifts, all putting in a certain amount of energy and lies to keep the protection of the projection going. The question I keep asking myself is: do I want to use my strengths to be apart of this cycle or not?"

His eyes flared open for a moment like he'd swallowed a firefly, not at the question I had posed for myself, but from what I would soon see was from the mention of my sister. He had something.

"I was notified by your mother that you may not want to talk about your recently deceased sister. Is It O.K. if I ask you some questions about her?"

I was leaning forward on the couch with my hands clasped in between my legs. The psych had looked up at me now. He was sweating at the top of his thin hairline. Observing that I was staring at his building perspiration, he, trying to be nonchalant, took out a thin, white napkin from his grey shirt pocket and dabbed the top of his head. The napkin looked like cheap toilet paper. I'd have offered him some water, but I had no water to give and I didn't know where the sink and cups were to give him any. I figured he did - it was his office - so I asked him for some. He pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I got up and found a stack of paper cups. I poured myself a cup and went back to the couch, but instead of leaning forward, I sat back, relaxed, and let the expensive leather couch take the weight I had been carrying away.

"So," the psych maintained cooly, "Would it be alright if we were able to discuss your sister?"

I lifted the paper cup over my head and the psych's eyes, after I poured the water over my hair, my face, and clothes, was a mixture of what my mom's eyes looked at the funeral, defeated, confused, and with a loss of faith and hope. My father's eyes had only held hate, anger and the need to lash out at someone, but the only someone that would have fit the bill would have been God.

"Sure," I answered, "Let's talk about my sister."

-

I finished drying myself in the car. The psych had let me keep the towel.I leaned out the window to look at myself in the side mirror. I looked fine. Presentable. Accountable. Like I had been through something where I hadFaced my soul. Like I had used and abused my emotions. There was comb in my glove compartment, so I took it out and rushed it through my damp hair. Slicked back. The sunWas out, no clouds, burning up the inside of my car. That taste that comes afterFinishing something that's supposed to do you good didn't come. I was left with an unsure hand. Putting my keys in the ignition, I turned them, and felt the engine rumble in front of my legs.The sun sat in the sky like a lazy hand and I had nowhere else to go but home.

-

"Let's go to the river today," my dad said over coffee and two over easy eggs on topOf burnt wheat toast. "I'll drive and you and your sister can sit in the back and sing."

I looked over at Ally. She was gazing into her fruit bowl she had prepared forherself because dad didn't understand the concept or how to make it. The lamp light above usreflected in the smooth apricot yogurt and the flecks of granola scattered on toplooked like beige, jagged rocks. My dad's offer hung in the air and neitherof us bit the lure. I had just woken up and was unable to speak clearly, a decent excuse. Ally was simply choosing to ignore him.

"What you think there Ally?" I asked her. I sipped my coffee. It needed more cream. I got U, got it and brought the carton to the table.

"We can take the truck down there and load the back with the fishing poles and tackleAnd inner tubes. We haven't...done that...in a long time," he said, chewing his food as he spoke.

Ally poked her fruit bowl with her spoon, silent.

"What you think, Cam?" My dad was desperate. He knew I'd say yes.

"Sure. I've got no plans this weekend."

"No schoolwork?"

"It can wait till Sunday. Only math and some reading."

"Ally, what do you think?" my dad asked, leaning over to her. I could see he was Trying to be as courteous and gentle with her as he knew how to. I felt bad for him.

"Sure," she muttered, "That sounds like fun." I could barely hear her, but somehow, I could tell she sounded happy.

"Perfect," my dad smiled, "We'll pack the car up Friday,Drive up Saturday morning early, camp one night, then get back Sunday afternoon." HeTook a long sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then dug His fork into the dry toast and ran his small steak knife over the eggs. A silent pop came fromThe egg and the light orange yolk spilled out. "Perfect," he repeated, "Just great."

Ally poked a grape from her fruit bowl and dipped it into the yogurt. I took another sip of my coffee and looked up into the fan, spinning above us.We were going to the river.

-

"Your sister turns five today," my mom told me, "And that meansI want you to be on your best behavior."

I nodded, unsure what the point of a birthday was. I had had one before, or at least I thought I did, and all I remembered was that I got presents and the colorful balloons and the cake we all ate with fire kind of floating and burning above it. Somewherein that moment I remember thinking that the cake was going to catch on fire, then they, everyone, some that I knew and some people I had never seen before, yelled and shouted to blow the fire out, so I quickly did, but not because it was for a wish, which I later found out it was supposed to be for, but because I truly thought the cake was going to catch fire and they wanted me to take care of it. At that point, I was unsure what it meant to be alive or why to celebrate it all.

"This is her day, Camden," my father told me, "So I want you to be happy for your sister."

"I am," I said. I was wearing my favorite white and blue striped t-shirt and New shoes that my mom had bought me for the party.

"Sometimes you have to think of other people," my mother continued, "And today is one of those days. I don't want any crying because you didn't get any presents or that none of yourfriends are at the party. There are going to be a lot of Ally's friends there, but not manyof your's...do you understand?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Do you understand, Cam?" My father repeated. His skin was the color of a burnt pancake and he smelt like stale sugar and sun tan lotion. He was in front of me and washolding a thin magazine with a man in a boat holding up a fish on a line on the cover.

"Yes, Dad," I said again. I was hungry. I wanted mac n' cheese, my favorite food.

I had been on the floor, laying on my stomach watching Ren and Stimpy. They were standing in front of the television and I remember trying to wish them out of the way. Behind them were two, large bay windows where three palm trees stood in a row like tropical soldiers. I could see there was no wind because the three of them stood still, as if posing for someone. Their leaves were bright green, a mixture of the neon green Jello I used to love to eat and the orange Jolly Rancher my dad would always have in a tiny tray in the middle of the dining table. My mother hated having them there because it always tempted Ally and I, but he never moved it until he moved out.

"Do you like your show?" my mom asked, turning to see what I was watching.

I nodded, absently. Ren was licking Stimpy's eye because he was complaining about having an eyelash in there. Stimpy was completely still and smiling like he does - dumb and content.

"Interesting..." my mother trailed off. She walked to the kitchen behind the couch and Opened up the pantry for something. "You hungry, Camden?"

"I'm starving," my dad said, "Let me go check on Ally in the bedroom. She should be up from her nap."

I got up from my stomach and sat back on my legs, "Do we have mac n' cheese?" I asked.

"Let me check."

She reached up for the cabinet over the stove where I could never reach andOpened it. I rose slightly up from where I was sitting to see if I could see the glorious dark blue and orange package, but wasn't able to see over couch. I hovered there, still like a humming bird.

"You're in luck," I heard her say, "We've got one box left."

"Yay!" I screamed and got up, running into the kitchen.

"But," she smiled, stopping me, "You'll have to share it with your sister."

"No! I don't want to! I always have to share."

"What did we just talk about Camden?" she said, lightly stamping her foot.

I tried to remember, but couldn't. I shrugged.

"You need to learn to share, Camden. You also need to listen better when your father and I are talking to you. You and your sister are going to know each other a very long time and I want you to learn how to share now, so you two can be happy in the future."

"The future," I asked, "What's that?"

She paused, then said, "It's a time," she paused again, "Ahead of us."

"Do we know where it is?"

"Not exactly," she sighed.

"What's it look like?"

"No one really knows. People can only imagine it."

"Is it very far away?"

She opened the top of the blue and orange mac n' cheese box and poured the dry macaroni into a large silver ***, lifted the faucet, and let it run inside for five or seven seconds. She placed the *** on an unlit burner and turned to look at me. Her eyes looked far away and right there with me.

"Closer then you think," she said and turned the burner on.

-

I turned into the taco bell parking lot. There was something I was trying to remember that was in my trunk, but I couldn't recall the picture. A haze blew over the windshield that was a mix of heat and wind; I wished to be somewhere else, someone else, someplace else, but, there I was, sitting there underneath the sun, like everyone else. If I was able, I would have unlocked the door to my car and opened the door and walked out - but - there was something else lingering underneath my fingernails, something I couldn't name.

"Two tacos," I said into my hand, "And a water."

"Pull to the window," the voice buzzed over the muffled speaker.

"Yes," I said through my split fingers.

In front of me, over a patch of clean cut green grass and a yellow, red, and orange Taco Bell signature sign, was a fresh gas station with a willow tree *** near the front entrance. He had a sign that hung around his neck that read Juice Please - Very Thirsty. How I knew this was because I had seen it every time I had been asked to fill up my dad's car every other Sunday. I had never given the tree a dollar, yet, I felt that I owed him something. I tried to pull up to the window, but my clutch was grinding and a cloud slunk overhead. I was tired and only wanted to eat.

"That'll be a two twenty-five," the voice said through the thick, clear glass.

"Yes," I said to myself, digging into my wallet for three dollars.

I ****** the three onto the thick plastic platform. A quick sweeping plastic brush pushed the bills toward the asker, and the bills were gone. I had no food. I had nothing. My money was gone and all I had was a gurgling car in front of me and an empty front seat beside me. A pair of clouds waded by my front shield window. A shadow drew itself out in front of me like a **** model. A beep. Sudden and behind me. There was sound. I looked over my shoulder and a black 2013 Cadillac was sitting there, windshield tinted grey, the driver a shadow. I was unsure what to do...so I pulled forward six inches, hoping the offer would be enough. I wasn't in the best neighborhood.

The window to the left of me slid open. An arm erupted forward with a plastic bag,"75 cents is your change."

The hand dropped three quarters next to the plastic bag. I grabbed the bag with the two tacos and three quarters and quickly wound up my window. The face in front of me was a dangerous blur: smiling, frowning, not caring either way what happened to me next. The hands had gobbled up the three dollars and I was happy to see it go. Who needed money? I tossed the plastic bag onto the passenger seat and sped off two blocks for my grandma's house. Salvation. The holy land. A place with free hot sauce and two dog's that were stolen without paper's. Eden.

-

"What are you learning right now?" I asked Ally.

She hesitated, then said, "Something to do with science." She paused," Lot's to do with rock's."

"Rocks?" I stammered, not remembering a time when I learned about rocks in school, "What kind of rocks?"

"I don't know," she grinned, looking up at me, "All kinds."

I laughed and kicked a stone into the river. The sun was out and reflected on the water like an unpolished diamond. We had grown up a quarter mile away, but still, it felt foreign to us.

"I like it. There's some things you could see that you would never think to read about it in books."

I had read plenty off books. Most, I took little from, but Ally, I could see, had taken plenty.

off to seek his final peacean earthly occupation endedhe’ll suffer worldly hate no moredown the aisle his coffin wended

the family closely followed a mother haltingly sobbing faithful marines came forthto steady her wobbling

there is no sudden wakingfrom this terrible dreamthe pungent incense roseto the chapels sacred beams

the stained glass murals depict the passion of Jesus’s storyilluming a consuming sorrow in all its grace filled glory

the ***** of death slinks on againwe search for consolationthe recompense of honor blestleaves a hollow heart wantingno answers offered to quell the darkof these terrible life’s momentsonly the desperate need to hold onto beleaguered treasure that sustains us

for we are always faithfulto the things we knowalways faithful to the things we refuse to let go

12.

the color guard and funeral detail assembled in front of St. Luke’sthe cemetery right next doorthe procession a short troop

the living will stumble through the darkness of separationseeking elusive answersof poignant uncertainty; all gave some, Joey gave allnothing more required for his journey through eternity

Joey will always be with us his stories forever retoldas long as the machinery of great nations engage the gears of wasteful war

Joey’s spirit lives in a peoples desire for freedom, only if our hope of peace is greater than theneed for conflict

Joey’s lifes workis sure to bear fruitif those remainingfight the good fightby taking up thetask to protect andexpand the valuesof liberty we hold most dear

"You!" he said"I like your smile."I blushed a bit,"Yours is nice as well"I wondered if Perhaps he feltHe could cure me byPassing me a compliment in the cereal aisleI suppose I thoughtIt was worthwileSince after thatHappy things compliedInside my headThe pasrtures of happiness became fertileAnd then I thought, for a little while;kindness between strangersshould go back in style

You don't realize how bad it hurts until it does. The ranting heteros wearing rainbows and yelling "just ignore them" ring in your head like a chant. At first, all you see is feminism and equality on every news page. They've turned your ****** birth defect into a fad. And it's only ok because, now you see the pre-teens want to be "#samelove" instead of "#thin". And just as you've forgotten the way your father spit the word "****" at the dinner table, you've forgotten that you can't legally marry the love of your life in the town that you grew up. And that your mother will cry when she realizes your best friend is actually your partner. Somehow it slips your mind that the cheering equalist aren't your family or the place you work, when there are gay beaches and gay clubs and explicit gay franchises. When did they gay society accept segregation of sexuality? You'll always have to grocery shop and change your oil. Eventually the positive chants of the evolving present, and promise land of the future will morph into sobs. Today is not the day to hold your girlfriendʻs hand in the frozen treats aisle. Or the aisle lined with roses and white tinsel bows tied to edge of the pews. You'll forget for a while the pain, but today isn't the day that it's gone forever. It still hurts. And it's going to hurt.

They were happyFor the first time in their livesA window of joyAn instance of hopeShe was so beautifulA baby girlBut happiness is a kind of sorrow in itselfNothing in life is freeThe mother was bleedingHer life slowly ebbing away, slipping through her fingersshe paid for her daughter’s lifewith her ownthey could have saved hershe could have raised her childbut there was no blood

He had lived this faronly by a miracleall those years of chemotherapyslowly decaying his bodyhis spirit, willinghis flesh, so weaksince birthhis own body killing itselfleaukimia had taken its tollthey said he had lived too longthat he was a fightereight years oldbut he needed the transfusion to live eight morehe could have lived longerhe could have hadhis first datehis first dancehis first kisshe could have walked down the aislewith the love of his lifehe could have known life, love and happinessbefore he knew deathhe could have known the joy of bringing up his children of watching his grand children growbut now he can’the sits in a hospital bed , surrounded by those who love himawaiting his fatefor there was no blood

an unborn babygetting ready to enter this worldthis beautiful worldnot knowing how much sorrow his coming bringshis mother sheds tears though not of joyit was either him or hera mother forced to decidethe life of her child or that of herselfbut there was a slim chancehe could survivethey had to operateshe agreed.The operation A successThe baby was saved....well almost savedthey tried every cornerlooking, searchinghospitals, dispensariesthey even appealed to schoolsbut they got the same answerhis whole life ahead of himnow lay behind himhe was six months oldprematurely bornpre maturely dyinghe could have livedbut there was no blood

They were to wed in two weeksExchange vowsWalk down the aisleSound familiarBut war came upHe went to fight for his countryTo keep her safeShe remainedPraying each day for his returnThen they brought back his bodyMortar fire, shrapnel had shredded his flesh beyond hopeThey had to amputate his legHe bled to deathThey could have saved himShe walks down the aisleBut as a widow not a brideA dirge instead of the wedding marchHaunts her stepsShe carries lilies instead of rosesBlack-clad instead of white.The brightes of days turned to a night as dark as midnight’s facethe vows she would have saidhad been fulfiledtill death did them part.He could have been by her sideKissing herWatching as she threw the bouqetWatching as their first child learned to walk, ride a bicycleAs their first child got marriedThey could have sp[ent the rest of their livesTogether as they ought to have been But there was no blood

We preach water and drink winewe excpect to be savedwhen we refuse to save otherswe take on the role of executionerexecutioner of the innocenti’m afraid, it will hurt, i don’t have enoughi can’t do it, i’m too oldWe **** the innocent with our decisionWe **** our future, our hope, our dreamsWe **** those we love

You say none of these apply to youThen Let me dash your dream worldYour fantasy, your bubble that you call lifeLet me dash them on the jagged teeth of reality

Your brother lies dying in an ambulanceA knife sticking out of his heartHe has been muggedYour father lies, dying, after a heart bypass operationHis only chance of life becoming one of the many for death.Your mother lies sick in a hospital bedAnaemic and slowly slipping awayAge caught up with herYour sister lies in a clinicAn accident cut a major blood vesselShe is losing her life You could have saved them allBut you didn’tMaybe you still canOr maybe its too lateDid i forget to mentionYou lie in the bed next to your motherWishing, hoping, praying for lifeWeak from a car crashYou have lost the very blood you refused to giveThe very blood you wish could save the lives of your loved onesThe doctor walks inClip board in hand.What do you think he will say.

What will your ending be.You may Choose your destinyOr choose your deathBut remember,Greater love hath no manThan to lay down his life for a friendHow much more if it were a stranger.

A kitchy poem i wrote to psych up students for an upcoming blood drive at a former uni i attended 10 years ago. interesting how styles change

You didn’t even call...I told on Monday how I’d only had a couple days till I was gone. But that wasn’t enough for youI’d have to be dying in order for you to callLittle do you know I am, it’s why I must leave this place that is killing me slowly. But I still have hopeA dreamYou’ll be standing there at the end of the aisle right before I board. I will drop my bags and run as fast as I can into youYou’ll be the excuse I’ve been looking for to stayBut the reality isYou’re the excuse that makes me have to leave.

Summer, Day 1.Do you know how much I love you?One day you will. One day you will.I haven't even seen you yet, but I am so in love with you.

When the time comes for us to finally be together, I will drive us somewhere outside this concrete jungle to ask you that. Then I will tell you to look at the stars, and you will try to count them, even if you already know that not enough stars were created to compare it to.

Darling, I dance and I sing and I shake in delight at the thought of being with you. I'm a morning person now, because I know that every waking moment is one day closer to forever.

Summer, Day 2.I have sworn to save every part of this heart for you. I've loved before, but not like this. Not like this. My stone-heart now made flesh beats as if I'd just been born, as if I'd been made to love and to be loved by you.

Summer, Day 3.I can't believe you chose me. I can't believe I'm going to get to marry you. We've got quite a long way to go, but I'm already preparing, making sure my dress will be as white as snow, every hair in place, this heart pure and this body untouched until the day I put my hand in yours. I can't wait to see your face when I walk down the aisle. I promise to be the perfect bride, your perfect bride.

Fall, Day 1.I might not write as much as I did during the summer. Life has been getting busier and busier, but I want you to know that I still love you as much as I did from the first day.

Fall, Day 46.I've been spending quite a bit of time with someone. He's clever and says the most interesting things. I feel like we will never run out of words to say to one another. We talk everyday, and the funny thing is sometimes I feel my day isn't complete yet if we haven't spoken. Don't worry, my heart is still yours. Just thought I'd let you know.

Fall, Day 52.I think I love him, but just a little bit. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut an inch off of my heart to give to him. It's just an inch less. Surely you won't mind.

Fall, Day 80.He's been with someone else this entire time. It's a good thing I gave him only an inch of my heart, but the rest is bruised. Don't worry, darling, I'll have it fixed in time.

Fall, Day 100.It's still beating, but barely. Maybe I should love a little again. Maybe some warmth will do this heart good.

Winter, Day 15.I think... I gave a little too much.

Winter, Day 50.My latest disaster said my heart was something worth waiting for. Apparently his second hands tick faster than the usual. He left, taking more than I expected he would.

Winter, Day 65.Is a heart supposed to look like this?

Winter, Day 90.I can no longer hear it beating steadily. Some parts have frozen. I have tried to stitch pieces back together and they hold... if you would call it that. There are scars and cuts that haven't healed, swollen bits from the wounds that were infected because I tried to save the poison only to have it lash out and bite me in the back.

Winter, Day 104.What have I done?

Winter, Day 135.Look at it. No wait, don't. There isn't anything left to give you, anything worthy enough to even stand in your shadow. I promised you everything now I give you nothing. You waited for me yet I pursued others, consumed by my lust and my pride, where can I hide that I myself will not see this mess of a heart I've created? Where can I run to that I will not have to see the look on your face when you see what I have left to give you? Do you still want this, this broken vessel, this torn up heart, all the pieces that don't fit, all the stitched up parts? Do you still want me?

Spring, Day 1.You do.

Spring, Day 3.You do because you knew what you were getting yourself into long before you met me, you knew I would break your heart yet you still asked for mine, you do because you are love itself. A death defeating, grave shaking, forgiving, full of grace and mercy, life and righteousness kind of love. This is the love that chose me. Now I choose you.

Spring, Day 5.What have I done to deserve this? As far as the east is from the west, so you have cleared my offense. When others asked for me, they knelt on one knee but you asked nailed to a tree. Now here you are. Despite what I've done you want me to return to you, want me to still have you. And you know what?

Spring, Day 7.I do. And I give my heart to you in absolute surrender and total abandon. Here, though broken and torn, take it and make it new.It was yours all along. I was yours all along.

so I keepthinking that you're runningI keep thinkingthat you're flying,but the truth is you're lyingand you're layingin your bedwith the flowersthat she gaveand the doorbell ringis just a song that you listenand forget.

so I drove down to townto the supermarketand asked'where can I find the aisle for happiness'they said'I don't think we have that here,or anywhere else',that's rightit never existedin my lifeand in my melody.

"try to be positive",they said, but it's hard, because it's not in me.

I slip the straps and release the claspof your over-the-shoulder boulder holder.Gravity asserts itself, and you sigh asI wonder if I should get even bolder

because

The jaws of love masqueradeas petals of a flower

so

Just say if you want me to stop.We are, after all, in the middle of a shop.I was attracted when I saw you smile.As we passed in the frozen food aisle.Now people are staring though the window.Shocked at my nonchalant innuendo.And if your purse metaphor extends to this.We can go to the Bank for a little kiss

though

I may not be able to affordnine feather mattresses and a golden pea.But if you could make dowith a lilo and a marblethen …You've pulled Princess.

Around age 30, she had begun this danceOf conversation, how to suggest the low-fatWithout insulting the husband’s paunchAnd need for chocolate chip and fudge ripple.

Twenty years later, they stand in the aisle,freezing, as they open door after doorin pursuit of the perfect opportunityto be guiltless,in at least one aspect of their lives.

“Is that mocha chip a two-for-seven deal?”He asks, squinting at his wife.It’s not low-fat, it’s only sugar-free,She said, eyebrows creased “Well, it looks like a good deal.”He is reaching, ignoring the tap tap of her foot,when she snatches the tub from his palmsand the freezer door closes the conversation.They leave for home in silence,with frozen peas.

My fiance and I watch,each carrying tubs of french silkand mango sorbet, and feeling the fullness of potential among the frozen foods,and I add waffles and bananasto our feast.

I often wonder if I would ever run into you.If I do, how would it play out? So, I imagine a scenario where Iam shopping at a supermarket, walking down the aisle, pushing my cart,looking for some mundane little thing and there you will be, next to the cereal aisle, holding your favorite brand of cereal.

What would we do? Will one of us lean in for a hug, smile awkwardly at each other or behave like strangers? Would we exchange numbers,With a promise to catch up soon or dothe most natural thing in the world- go to the nearest cafe or pub andhave coffee or a drink or two together.Share our stories, wish each other well and part as friends.I hope that's what we'd do.

I would love to walk down that aisle with you. I look for you in every supermarket in the world, I step into.

Judges please welcomeyour runner-up for the past 17 years!She has great talents and abilities!but you judge her on what YOU want.YOU want to see a sweet, loving girl.You want one that can juggle 40 different things.A girl that everyone loves to be around,One that will do every little thing you want.I'm sorry judges,but you can only find girl that in the toy aisle.

“Nicole Brunelli, the first small town journalist receiving...” - no - “...the best journalist of Ludlow receiving the Pulitzer Prize! She is ambitious, determinated, fearless, unstoppable and this couldn’t be possible if she wasn’t like this otherwise she would never had revealed the macabre events of Bethlem Royal Hospital! Aaaaaaah”. My name is Nicole Brunelli I’m 28 years old and I’m a journalist. My childhood wasn’t easy but what childhood was? My mom died when she gave me birth, and my dad... lo... my dad loved me too much until my 16 years old. By then I was starting college and I went to live with a friend of mine, we moved to Glasgow and we graduated together. We had the time of our life and I ended up marrying him, a few years later we moved to a small town called Ludlow, we had our precious first child and I became an unknown journalist. But now everything changed, this is what I was meant to do. I research about Bethlem Asylum and some archive stuff just doesn’t make sense, death dates, nonexistent patients, witnesses like one man who lived in the area of the hospital attested to the “cryings, screechings, roarings, brawlings, shaking of chains, swearings, frettings, and chaffings to be heard from the outside.” and he also said something about the managers of the facility that were known as Keepers, and were seemingly as frightening as they sound. One such Keeper, Helkiah Crooke, a member of the medical department of the royal household, took over, ousting the former for being “unskillful in the practice of medicine.” It could be assumed that he would then handle the medical inattentions to the patients, but no records were ever made of any medical needs of the patients. He himself referred to the patients as “the poore” or “prisoners”. Something is not right I feel it and that is why I’m going there to scrutinize, and due to this I’m going to be the first and the best small town journalist receiving a Pulitzer. My husband doesn’t really agree with this, but he knows how I am, he knows I’ll do everything for my Pulitzer, and to make him and our baby proud of me... The time has come, this is it. My future is about to change, I am here now, after a bus ride to Bethlem that **** 3 hours and 45 minutes, I am here. They refused to receive me! They don’t let me in! They don’t let me in and they don’t give me any information about their procedure on patients or anything! No, no, no, no. I gotta find another way to get in. I have to. I gotta find another way in. I’ve got to do this! I don’t know what to do, I was so close, so ******* close! I can’t give up, I can’t! I’ve got to do this! This is what I was meant to do!

One night passed and I was still there waiting for them to let me in until the night watch, where a nurse thought I was one of them trying to run, or at least that was what she wanted me think. For instants I thought “This is my chance! This is it” until I realised that once I get in, the difficult part is to figure how to get out. Three days passed and I realised what they were doing there...people coming in aisle F as sanes or insanes and two days later coming out as vegetables or dead... They were using patients, human beings, and most of them weren’t even crazy at least when they got there, and they were using them as cavies for their experiences. Of course, who would believe in crazy people? After the seventh day as a patient in the Asylum I had earned the right to a guided tour to aisle D... where they give you shock therapy. Apparently I’m a messy patient, I talk to much and I refused to take some pills, so they sent me to see Mr. Cleymoore, the asylum shrink so he could diagnose me; he said that I would never see my family again, that I would never see my husband or my baby again, he said he knew all about me, and he wanted me to sign myself in the asylum but I refused to do that...So they faked my death. In my plug diagnosis my name was no longer Nicole Brunelli, now I was Lisa Coventry and I was diagnosed with hidden schizophrenia and double personality disorder, caused by the fire that killed my family when I was 16 years old. But how would they know all of this? My family, my past, my whole life?! It doesn’t make any sense! Three months passed and I had a tour to aisle D every week. This place was crazy, it makes me think who are the insane people here. The way they treated people! The way the “disturbed” were chained up to walls and posts like dogs. They slept on beds of straw only as the water supply did not allow for washing of linens. The way the rooms had exposed windows, leaving the patients in damp conditions at the mercy of all weather and utter darkness at night. The hospital itself was actually noted as “a crazy carcass with no wall still vertical,” offering only leaking, caved in roofs, uneven floors and buckling walls. Under Crooke’s Keeping, the residents were not only filthy and unclothed, but malnourished to the point of starvation using a “lowering diet,” of intentionally slim portions of plain food only twice a day. It was meant to deplete and purge the madness out of the victims, while helping to conserve money. There were no fruit or vegetables to be given. Mostly bread, meat, oatmeal, butter, cheese and plenty of beer was the menu. While all of this is terrible, the true horror was in the moneymaking scheme that kept it running at all. Originally, the hospital was open to the public in hopes that food would be brought to the inmates from the community. Quickly, money was charged, creating a sideshow where the public was invited to watch patients displayed in cages, laugh at them as they banged their heads repeatedly on the walls, and even to poke them with sticks and throw things at them. Luckly I made a friend there, Mike Spencer was his name, he was the male nurse who used to do the night watches, he used to stay all night with me just talking and making promises; he knew I wasn’t crazy and that actualy helped me keeping me sane, at least for a while. Six months passed and I wasn’t the same. They are coming, they are coming...they are coming for me...they are coming for Lisa. It’s cold, the cold tastes like blue. - Ahah - it tastes like blue! - Ahah...It’s cold... they are coming for Lisa, Lisa doesn’t want to go with them... She said that she’ll keep me safe, she said she would take care of Lisa. Lisa is hearing them, They are coming! Lisa doesn’t want to go, no, no, no, NO. She said they wouldn’t hurt me. YOU SAID THEY WOULDN’T HURT ME! They, gave me shocks again, they gave Lisa shocks. It’s not my fault. They know. They know. They must know why am I here if they don’t know? It’s not my fault she made me do it! She said it was the best thing! Now they can’t have him. Now he’s safe. My unborned baby is safe. They can’t have him now. She said she would protect me...She said she would protect Lisa. Shut the voices down! Shut the voices! She’s saying bad things. Lisa doesn’t like what she’s saying. She keeps telling me - “ You killed your mother when she gave you birth! it’s your fault that daddy loved you and used you to replace her! You know you liked when he used to play with you and love you. Everybody knows he used to did it what people didn’t knew was that you liked it! you wanted more! You know he only did it because you let him! And you certainly know who started the fire who killed him...” - SHUT UP! We need to shut the voices down! We need to shut the voices! shut...shut the voices...shut the... shut the voices down... shut the voices down... shut... shut the... shut the voices... She said Mike promised. She said Mike promised Lisa to take me out of here... Mike promised. Two more months passed and I was completly insane due the shock therapy, but Mike kept his promise and he took me out of there, in the middle of the night he gave me a coat and he drove me to South Hampton seaport, he gave me the ticket and said that that was the further he could go. Along with the ticket he also gave me his lucky neckless and told me he bought me a ticket to Cuba so I could be free. I left a friend in that seaport a really good friend but I needed to go I couldn’t go back to that place. I had no lugagge, no shoes, nothing, just a coat, a neckless and a ticket to freedom. I had to ****** adapt to the situation and try to go unnoticed and not to attract to many attention, so I went to my cabine and stayed there until the end of the cruise for the maximum I could.

The beginning of this story is pretty hazy, I’m not really sure I remember how the whole thing started but when it was happening it all seemed to make so much sense. The first thing I remember, everything seemed normal enough, I was probably just going about doing the same things I do most days, nothing special. Then all of a sudden this terribly great thing happened. Everyone was talking about you. Something important going on and you where right at the center of it. As I later found out you had gone missing or run away or just vanished, nobody knew. I defended you when they said they had seen it coming, that they had seen it in your eyes. I knew better than that. This was a place of loners and lovers, no families allowed, all the families had to go somewhere else, or at least they did. I remember someone important, the Mayor maybe. He was like a cartoon villain, suave in a gray paper-perfect gray suit and silver hair slicked back just enough. He had a big smile and teeth like snow on a sunny day. He was a game show host villain. He was the one making the biggest fuss about the whole thing. Always talking about how we shouldn’t feel ashamed of you for running away or that we should pray that you be safe wherever it was you had gone. But he just had those big phony teeth. There was something going on with friends, at school I guess, like they wanted to keep talking about it but I didn’t. I knew you were coming back, how couldn’t you. I tried to explain to everyone that there was no way in hell I would be that cruel to myself, but they had no idea what I was talking about, they thought I was losing my mind. You remember that time we tried that one drug and things were not as great as you expected. That night we thought we were both going to lose our minds. This time I wasn’t losing my mind. I had all the confidence in the world. There was a lull midway through, I had no idea when you were coming back and I was starting to get annoyed with all the people around me. I couldn’t believe they were still making such a racket about the whole thing. They weren’t even like real people, they all had these defining characteristic which became their entire personality. They were caricatures of real people but I didn’t have the heart to tell them. I didn’t care enough to bother with figments, how could I? Then suddenly the whole thing was different, there was some new great event going on. Everyone had gathered to some great big open amphitheater. All the seating was facing a big fancy stage with lots of lights on it. Behind the stage were hills. Everyone was talking about them, those where the hills they said you ran out into. As it turned out that was the reason for our being here. It had been like a hundred years or something since you had run away and everyone had come for a ceremony in your honor. The whole thing was absolutely awful. It felt like we were there for a whole day, and the mayor was speaking for over half of that. Everyone was so captivated by his teeth and his suit that they barely heard what he was even talking about. They all acted as though what he was saying was breaking their hearts though, some even seemed genuinely inspired. The ceremony was going on and I was pretty done with the whole thing, I could feel the end coming. There was some pause in the speeches and all the seat sitters went to go freshen up. I took my chance and just ran out into those hills. This was the best bit. All of a sudden I was in these hills, there was nothing but mountains in the distance and the stars were like light fixtures. They shone with color almost but the moon was so big and brilliant that everything was that perfect dim blue-silver color. By that light I could see the wind dancing in the knee-high grass, not like waves but more like snakes. I felt like a dumb rock when all I wanted was to be smoke, dancing with the wind. Then you came down from the sky, you showed me all the dazzling swirls and swoops you could do and left all these crazy colors in your wake. When you finally settled down I saw you skin was like orange flame, soft like a marker drawing, moving around you like a flaming teardrop. Your core was all blackness and depth but I knew it was you. Who else would it be?We hold hands and you fly us back to that big stage. We wait behind the curtain and we hear the mayor come on one more time. He’s telling the audience about one final display to tip off the ceremony, a dazzling light show preformed by a secret guest. I look at you in surprise but before I know it we’re making a run for it, speeding up those long aisle steps, up towards the exit doors at the top. Everyone is speaking about it at the top of their lungs but I can barely hear them over the sight of you. Your colors are all falling off and I can see your features being revealed as flakes of light peel away. We burst out the double doors and down some hallway. Out into the bright sunlight and I still can’t get over how beautiful you are. And that’s how it ends.

You stood there, probably cold,in the frozen foods aisle.Actually, you had a peacoat on.When I first saw you,I only saw your back.Your hair looked wiry and blonde,I thought you were aged and frail.

When you turned around with a gallon of milkyour face surprised me.I was swept up in awe and stared too long.Your eyes-- blue, kind, and calming--rested on pillows of roseate cheeksthat looked recently swept by winter winds of New England.

Age 4, Your father broke your heart before any boy had the chance too.

Your life will be completely different without a father

Age 5, No one to call you princess

You cry when you see your friend's father call them princess

Age 6, No one to hug you when you cry from bullies

You hate going to school

Age 7, No one to tell you "I'll beat up every guy that hurts you"

You don't get to laugh when he says that

Age 8, No one to tell you are beautiful

You hate your body and think your fat

Age 9, No one to tell you "It's okay"

You cry yourself to sleep every night

Age 10, No one to tell you, "You are perfect"

You think you are the ugliest person in your school

Age 11, No one to tell you, "You are too young for boys"

You get your heart broken over and over too young

Age 12, Your father is not there

You miss him and ask yourself why he left

Age 13, Being told you have "Daddy Issues"

Age 14, No father to tell you, "You look beautiful without make up"

You beat your face with make up

Age 15, No father to say to your first date, "If you hurt her, I will **** you"

You get hurt

Age 16, No one to dance with you when they call in daddy daughter dance on your sweet sixteen

You ask yourself why he left again

Age 17, No one to tell you to change out of that clothes because he knows guys couldn't resist

You might get *****.

Age 18, No one to tell you, "My little princess, you have come so far, I am a proud father"

You see all your friend's father telling them this and miss you

Age 19, No one to warn you about ***** boys

You have to fight off a guy

Age 20, No one to tell your boyfriend, "I have a rifle, I am not afraid to use it"

You don't get to say "Dad!!!"

18+ age, No one to walk you down the aisle

You tell yourself, "I made it, I made it through the good and bad"You have a husband or wife or neither, you made it without him. You made it through the tears, the heart aches, the pain of missing him. He missed your whole life, you realize he didn't deserve you or seeing your life grow.

Screws should be in the toolbox at home.Toolbox...yes, in the garage, next to the miter saw, andmy old skates, the four-wheeled skates, not the inline,never in line because of a rebellious nature.A leather jacket kind of resistance.A motorbike brilliance.Now riding lawnmower equipment.Dad's don't walk, we're brazen.

The ancient toolbox next to an ancient cardboard box. Scribbled on the front, the marking of youth,my name, my print. Such ugly handwriting.For God's sake.

But as for keepsakes:The only objects that hold more merithave more and most accumulative dust.Yearbooks, pictured peers, so many memoriesand faces. So many faces in this book.

The trophies. Number three. MVP.A wipe of the thumb revealed the number.And the rhyme is new.Wit came with later age, I suppose.

Sports in adolescence, the physicality, the egotism,it clouds critical thinking, or maybe wry remarks, too."Gay" and "*******" become some of the favorites.And now this leads to an obligatory pun.Grass stained knees. Sacking. The loser is gay.

How paradoxical!

Other contents of the box are various marks.Grades; graduations; girls.Three G's that I've always evaded because of laziness. Because **** dignity, right?At least at that age integrity is as foreign as the idea of it even being instilled.

Or sometimes it's his friend,our neighbor's youngest son, who boasts about his parent'smaterial possessions, while his parents askmy wife and I if he can stay at our home for the night,as they argue in the dark because the electric billis overdue, and their credit is scoredby the proverbial scissors.

Not ones used to cut red ribbons, butthe ones you're told not to run with.

I could have said that owing people onegot them into their predicament.But, like they say in the Good Book,(The book I've always let collect dust,not to be confused with the dust on the box in the garage.)Love Thy Neighbor.

And sometimes you never know when you'll need a cup of sugar.Thankfully I know there is sugar in the cupboard.Milk and eggs in the refrigerator.But no shelves or brackets.

Aisle four, Home Depot, no help.I figure any will do, and at homeI'm *******, I mean I have screws.I'll ask my son to help me hang them,somewhat for the company,also because they're for his belongings.

The neighbor's son will talk about the elaborate woodwork on the rare chestnut shelves his dad owns. Surely it's perception, somethingmood lighting can fix, which his parents are arguing over,well the lack of lighting,seeing as how their mood is already set.

My boy and I will place histrophies on the shelves,as I tell my boy I was number three.Once an MVP.And the neighbor's sonwill tell me his father wasnumber four.

Time for an adventure,3 a.m. and rainingSitting in my FUBU hoodieMy brain was really strainingTo keep awake until the busPulled into Detroit StationSo I could start my trip acrossThis once great and mighty nationI wasn't there alone this nightOthers dozed and sleptSome just sat there silentlyWhile some just sat and weptI looked at those around meWho had assembled for this rideI hoped we would get alongWhen in walked a young brideShe was dressed in white from head to feetHer veil was ripped and tornBehind the ruined makeup You could see her face was wornNo groom came in, she was aloneShe changed, sat, made no fussIt was almost one more hourBefore we finally saw our busA Greyhound, drab and drearyPulled up at our loading doorThey announced "210 to Vegas"And they didn't say no moreMost people fly when heading thereThey want to get there and get homeOur band of silent travellersWanted to just get out and roamThey loaded up our casesI just had a backpack, thatI was gonna take on board andJust load it where I satThey said fifteen more minutesThey would have to fill with fuelAt this point I made contactWith a man....to have a duelHe was sitting right across from meHe had a ball out, on his kneesHe was tossing it into the airSo...I brought out my keysHe tossed it up and caught itSo, with my keys I did the sameHe smiled and flipped it to his leftand with my keys I played his gameHe moved it round from hand to handMade it hover in mid airHe did it all so gracefullyI did the same with out a careHis ball, my keys...time slipping byJust then he gave a smileHe bounced the ball upon the floorHe had beat my by a mileI nodded, slipped my keys awayI'd been outdone through and throughBy a man with a red rubber ballWhat else was there to do?We lodaded up and took our seatsThe crowd was pretty thinWith the lights low on inside the busIt was looking rather dimThe married folks and partnerspaired up in seats as pairsThe singles spread out randomlyAs they collected up our faresVegas, was our hallowed groundThe final destination for us allThen on the station P.Athey made the final loading callThirty three hours was the timeWe'd take to driveGive or take some time for food stopsWe'd all get there safe, aliveWe hit the road directlyMy adventure had begunIt was still dark in the distanceWe were driving towards the sunAcross the aisle all aloneAn old lady sat and wroteShe was trying to get comfortableShe was wrapped up in her coatThe seat behind me, vacantI was grateful for this factIt afforded me the space so ICould put my seat right backWith the blind pulled down, I tried to sleep, at last I drifted offThere was the sound of the bus motorAnd of the occasional, dry, hoarse coughI heard music in my head at firstSo I thought it was a dreamIt turned out to be a radioOwned by our runaway, bridal queenshe sat two rows down and to my leftShe had changed into some jeans, and shirtShe had one ear plug in, one outYou could see how she did hurtI got up, stretched, went to the backI'd freshen up and have a ***As I walked I felt so ill at easeAs all eyes followed meThe back two seats were occupiedby two nuns, one old, one notThe smiled as I came near themI smiled back, and then I thoughtThis cast of wayward charactersWas not at all like thoseThat were portrayed in "Homeward Bound"The song most folkies all shoud knowOn my way back I noticed a manReading, or at least that's how it lookedI saw no print upon his pageNo letters in his bookI stood and watched, his fingers flewLike they were moving on a railThen I realized that he was blindAnd his book was all in braileI stood there in amazementAt this sight that I'd just seenThen I chuckled at the coverFrom an old ******* MagazineWe pulled into a dinerWe'd been out for nine hours nowWe had an hour to ourselvesTime to change and get some chowMost folks sat as they had comeIn pairs or all aloneSome went out for a ciggyOne old man went to the phoneWe all made sure to void ourselvesBefore we got on boardFor the smell from eighteen greasy mealswould test the nuns faith in our lordThe background noise was louderThan it had been at the startWe were eighteen lonely travellersTravelling together, but apartA father and his daughterPlayed "eye spy" and sang some songsThey played "license plate bingo"Most lyrics they got wrongThe old lady across the aislewas watching, intently like a hawkShe was scratching things inside her bookYou'd expect her just to squakThe man who had the ball satAlone, said not a wordI walked by and said "good morning"But I don't think he heardHe sat there, still not movingstaring out the window at the worldHe was taking in the movieOf our trip as it unfurledThe trip was uneventfulIt went on mostly the samePeople reading, people watchingFather, daughter and their gamesThe driver pointed out some stuffAs we passed by on the way"To the left you'll find the largestball of string made to this day"He pointed out old houses,Fields of battle, lost and wonJust a couple took real noticeMost wished the trip was doneA repeat after five more hoursA new driver came on boardShe was blond, blue eyed and beautifulInside, my heart just soaredIn my imaginationShe would pick me from the crowdWhen we made it to Las VegasI would go with her, I'd be proudBut, she sat there pointing out the sightsLike her predecessor hadMy fantasy went up in smokeIt was really kind of sadWe ventured on till Vegasgetting off to eat and thenWe would all repeat our actionsAnd get back and sleep againIt was quiet for the most partMost folks waiting for the endWhen we came out of the mountainsWe could see the strip around the bend"Ten minutes till Las Vegas"our blond driver told us allMake sure you've your belongingsI looked at the man who had the ballHe smiled tossed it in the airI tossed my keys just one more timeIn a way, we had a friendshipIn a way , it was a crimeWe had one thing in commonIt would stick with me for goodIt would always make me smileAnd a smile's always goodWe pulled up into the stationWe were all tired from the rideMost grabbed their extra luggageI grabbed mine and went insideThere, I went up to the windowBought another ticket, heading eastTurned and bumped into a fellowHe was a slight, buy friendly priest"I'm heading to Detroit, my son""Where is it you're off to""I'm just off on an adventure""I think I'll go back there with you"He smiled, opened his bibleWe had three hours still to waitBefore our bus was ready to go backAcross the United StatesYou might ask yourself, why do this?Why go back and not take timeTo see the city that I'd come toIt just seems so sublimeto me the whole adventureIsn't in the place I goThe adventure is the peopleEach trips a brand new showThe cities that I visitReally never, ever changeBut the people....oh the peopleMan, some are really strangeIf you now would please excuse meI must go and change my clothesFor I'm off on adventureHow it turns out...no one knows.

this one is a long one, so sit down, grab a beer....and come away on a bus trip from Detroit to Las Vegas.

“LLLAAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.There is a teency weency storm that is abrewing around us – ‘tis but a trifling, little thing - so I ask that you please remain calm.”

The curious passengers crowded to look out their windows. Ominous clouds brigaded the skies with enormously vibrant, sharpened zigzag knives, cutting through the air with thunderous taps against the windows. The travelers went into a frenzy as one-by-one, each fell victim to the terror of the roaring victory cries.As a crazed, indecisive pendulum shouts order of formation – back forth, back forth – the travelers scurried into the aisle, bumping into one another like panicked ants dodging magnified beams of light.

Suddenly the chaos had ceased.

In the very front of the aisle stood two of the most spellbinding flight attendants that had ever been seen. They brought peace amongst the fury inside the cabin without uttering a word.

“LLLLAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.I apologize for the brief disruption; however,we have a show for you his evening. A lovely show it is indeed.Please hand over your tickets, for at the end of the show there will be a special prize awaiting the lucky winner who is reunited with this item of admission.Oh, and might I suggest, everyone quick look over to your right; there is a canyon to be seen. It’s a large one, in fact.Ain’t it GRAND???So fasten those seatbelts, and enjoy your ride.Ta-Ta.”

The passengers began to do as they were instructed. Along with the refreshments of soda pops and pretzels bites, the angelic flight attendants placed out black velvet hats and black sticks with white tips, centering them on the empty laps of those preparing for the delightful evening event. When all of the hats had been properly placed, the attendants returned to their stations.

“LLLAATIES & GENTLEmen, this is your captain speaking.Please take note of the hats that rest upon your laps.Seek and you shall find that your tickets have been placed inside.For if they are not, you will be deprived of your surprise. Ta-Ta.”

The puzzled passengers obeyed, and perching their heads forth, they looked down into the blackened velvet hats… A wave of surprise quickly spread throughout the cabin, for every person was the winner!

“LLLAATIES & GENTLEmen this is your captain speaking. Please tap your hats.After doing so your prize will appear inside.” The excited passengers reached for their blackened sticks with the white tips and gently tapped the brims.

KAAAABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!­

A thundering crash accompanied a blinding slash. For a brief moment I could no longer hear nor see anything. I patiently waited to regain my senses. I slowly started to hear an orchestrated, harmonic beat hitting the ceiling. The white light that momentarily blinded me started to dissipate like an early morning fog.

What was the image that slowly appeared before my curious eyes? A crimson ceiling it was. It had everything a ******* painting deserved. I was ecstatic. I had completed a true masterpiece! My personal contribution to our youth.

As I sat in the last row admiring my work of art, a lonely tear trickled down my face. My lovely acquaintance wiped away my tear and smiled at me. “BRAVO! – BRAVO! It is simply exquisite!”

The heads were placed in the allotted location as requested.

I sat there with the deepest satisfaction twisting the upward curve of my mustache. I felt the gentle touch of my delightful assistant slowly running her fingers through my hair. The other softly placed her hand upon my shoulder and asked, “What next?” I humbly replied, “We’re going to donate them to the toy store. There they will be placed in wonderfully colored boxes that will play lovely music when the handles are cranked in a circular motion until the heads pop out!”

The flight attendant looked at me with great wonder, “Captain, you’re truly a remarkable man.”